


Rhythm and Bruise

by ShadowcrestNightingale



Series: Darkwave Chronicles [9]
Category: Cowboy Bebop, Cowboy Bebop (Anime)
Genre: Abuse, Bullying, Child Neglect, Coming of Age, Gangs, Gen, Martial Arts, Mentorship, Partnership, Syndicate, Syndicate Era (Cowboy Bebop), Training, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-01-24 16:27:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 28,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21341218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowcrestNightingale/pseuds/ShadowcrestNightingale
Summary: Red Dragon requires regular infusions of  fresh young bloods. Mao takes them off the street and sequesters them in a brutal training regime designed to produce enforcers. When young Spike arrives at the dojo he enters a world of hazing, harsh trials, and the bitter partnership with another boy his age, Vicious. It's tough growing up. It's harder when you realize Fate already has a bullet with your name on it.
Series: Darkwave Chronicles [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/854244
Comments: 24
Kudos: 11





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a prequel to the events of my Dragons of the Darkwave #1 and 2. In chapter 4 of #2, adult Spike has a lengthy dream that touched on his childhood. The threads I set in motion got me to thinking what it would have been like for him … and also it was impossible for me to reveal some things there since they were beyond Spike's knowledge. In #1 I begin with Spike and Vicious being tested at the age of 14, where the nature of there competitiveness is illustrated. I found myself wanting to explore that … then more ideas popped into my head … and then entire sequences. Until I knew this was a tale I had to add to my collection. Spike and Vicious as mere boys in the furnace that forged them. I will endeavor to delve into the foundations of both bad boys. For those who read as I publish: this will be a slower release as I am insane enough to be writing this alongside “Alley Cat Shuffle”.

_ **Rhythm and Bruise** _

_ **Session 1** _

  
  


Staring at the bald man behind the counter drying beer mugs, Mao Yenrai swallowed his pride. The Red Dragon capo from Tharsis had never been quite so embarrassed in front of other ranked syndicate members. But at the moment that detail did not matter. He stood in the middle of the pool hall in this slum of a crater called Deseado dragged here by the others who wanted to kill some time in a victory celebration. A few rounds of high stakes pool, nothing unusual.

  
  


Until that boy appeared at the railing. Even now Mao glanced at the child idly drinking from a beer mug he'd just filled from the tap. A pale young boy with lazy brown eyes beneath of a mop of unruly hair, dressed in ratty jeans with a vest over a chalk-stained shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Unassuming, thin as the pool cue he'd used to rob Mao blind. How had he fallen for the trap? The boy had simply offered to play a game and asked how much they wanted to lay on the table. Mao wondered now if it would have been wiser just to have handed over his wallet then, instead of humoring the situation. The moment Mao missed on his second shot after breaking the balls, the boy took over the table and ran it like the slickest pool shark he'd ever seen. Not only that, but the brash youth practiced another skill Mao only caught by a miracle when he witnessed the slim fingers sliding into Basilisk's pocket to relieve him of his wallet, all while the boy was lining up a shot. A master of diversion—but he was only a child!

  
  


He reached into his pocket to discover his own wallet missing. In the course of performing a clean game of pool, complete with trick shots, this mere child had pick-pocketed six ranked members of the Red Dragons. Who was this boy? He had to know.

  
  


Mao walked up to the man dubbed Uncle Joe, the owner of the seedy pool hall, and pointed at the young boy. “How old is he?”

  
  


Joe glanced up and followed the gesture. “Who? Spike? Just turned twelve last week.”

  
  


“Twelve?” Mao gave him a covert glance only to find the boy staring straight back and offering a lazy wave. Caught, Mao shifted his gaze around the hall. “Could you tell me who his parents are?”

  
  


“Take it you wanna talk to them. They _were_ good friends of mine.” Joe wiped a glass and set it aside. “Good luck. Their ashes blew away on the wind about six years back. Spike's been hanging here ever since.”

  
  


An orphan? Mao couldn't believe his luck. Was there a chance this could work? He turned and watched the boy rub foam of his lip with the back of his hand. This was not a discussion for in front of him. “Is there a place that we can talk in private, Sir?”

  
  


Joe held up a hand for Mao to follow. “Be right back, kiddo. You got the taps.”

  
  


As Mao followed, he glanced back to see Spike vault over to the backside and top off his mug with a grin.

  
  


Inside Joe's cramped back office reeking of mildew that creapt up the wall, Joe sat at a desk that had seen better days. An old plaid couch sat against the wall, threadbare with a blanket rumpled in the corner. Joe gestured for Mao to take the duct-taped chair on the other side. Not wanting to offend the man, he sat down and folded his hands in his lap.

  
  


Joe took out a cigarette and lit it. He leveled his gaze through the smoke. “What does a Red Dragon want to do with me?”

  
  


“You know who I am?”

  
  


He shifted his eyes to the braid on the jacket. “Wasn't born yesterday. Know of your kind. The scars are all around this crater from your groups handiwork. Rumor has it your lot took out a whole block today on the other end. So let me guess, you'll give me a choice. Pay you, or you'll destroy my place?”

  
  


Mao took a deep breath and shook his head. “On the contrary. I am interested in the boy.”

  
  


“The runt?” Joe wrinkled his brow. “Why?”

  
  


“To say I am impressed with his skills is an understatement. For him to pull such a scheme on members of my syndicate is remarkable. Did you warn him about us?”

  
  


Joe lifted a shoulder. “Didn't feel I needed to, far as I am concerned. That boy did nothing wrong.”

  
  


Mao chuckled. “We both know that is a lie. I know a hustle when I see one.”

  
  


Leaning back in the chair, Joe's smile broadened. “Not so sure I'd be crowing about being whipped by a twelve-year-old if I were you. Bad for one's reputation and all that. Now, I have a hall to run. You wanna get to the point?”

  
  


Clearing his throat, Mao crossed his arms. “I can understand if you would be reluctant to part with a relative.”

  
  


“Relative?” Joe's shoulders shook as he laughed. “I ain't related to the Spiegels, just knew 'em is all. The kid's been working for me to keep a roof over his head is all.”

  
  


Spiegel? That name struck a chord. But Mao didn't have time to tease that out of his memory. At the moment he needed to seal this deal. Had he noted a tinge of annoyance in the man's voice? A new angle to explore. “Providing for a child is expensive.”

  
  


Joe rolled his eyes. “Swear some days that boy drinks more beer than the clients. You saying you want to take him? Heh, that'll be the day. The racket that little shit rakes in with his games tripled my income. I'm not letting that walk out my door for a song.”

  
  


Every man had his price. Mao met his gaze evenly. “So, we have a number for how much the boy is worth it to you.” He extended his palm. “I will need my wallet back.”

  
  


Joe threw his head back in laughter. “He pinched you too? Well now, fair enough. Here's the deal, you give me a years worth of what he rakes in for me and you can have him.”

  
  


Rubbing his chin Mao nodded. “Sounds fair.”

  
  


“Good. Cause the little shit hasn't wisened up yet and asked for a partnership. Figure that'll occur to him soon enough and I won't be able to keep it all to myself.” Joe padded to the wall and opened up a drawer. Mao noted it opened into the wall, inside all the Dragon's possessions from their pockets in a drop box through a hatch on the other side. Joe tossed the wallet. “Fifteen million woolongs. The kid's that damn good. Transfer the cash, and you got a deal.”

  
  


Mao pulled out a card and punched through the transfer.

  
  


The moment it was finished, Joe closed the device and a broad smile crossed his features. “You got him and **all** the trouble that comes with that punk. Suggest you watch yourself. I didn't teach him everything, some of this shit he figured out for himself.” Joe spun a key ring on his finger. “He gets places I never knew existed. And no pocket is safe from those fingers. Now you can deal with his bad habits.”

  
  


The vehemence behind those words caught him by surprise. The shrewd man stood up and opened the door. Joe searched the hall as Mao came to the door, he smelled the whiskey on the man's breath. Joe snapped his fingers and waved a hand.

  
  


From behind the bar Spike sauntered over and leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets a cigarette hanging from his mouth. Under the yellowish lights Mao looked down to the runty boy's lazy eyes as Spike simply asked, “What's up?”

  
  


“I'd like you to met Mao Yenrai.”

  
  


Mao offered a hand. “Have you ever been to Tharsis, Spike?”

  
  


Spike blinked half-hooded eyes at the hand and seemed to consider the shake for a moment before he took the offered hand. The grip was strong for such thin hands. “Naw. What's that?”

  
  


Mao smiled, this would be simple. Easy as all the others he had brought to his place. He didn't always have to pay for them, but he also didn't usually get this grand of a demonstration. This was an investment in the future of the syndicate. Walking beside the boy, who brought nothing with him, Mao wondered what time they would arrive back at Tharsis. Lifting his arm he found his watch missing. The one that had been on his wrist when he'd offered his hand.

  
  


The gold watch now gleamed on Spike's thin wrist as he whistled.

  
  


*

  
  


Mao entered his mansion accompanied by the squeak of Spike's canvas tennis shoes on the marble floor. He noted that those soles were nearly worn smooth, the seams frayed. By that and the ragged holes in the knees of his jeans, he'd need new clothing soon. The scent of tobacco and beer clung to the boy, a telltale signature of his origin. But Spike remained oblivious to all of this, his eyes searched the corridors of the house as they walked through, passing servants. Mao gave a nod and several vanished to do their tasks, aware of the new arrival he had called ahead about.

  
  


Spike peered into a side room and mouthed a silent wow. “Shit, this place is huge. The whole pool hall would fit just in that one room. Bet a whole lotta people live here.”

  
  


Mao chuckled, his hands grasped behind his back. “No. Just me.”

  
  


“This place is as big as the police station.”

  
  


The largest building in Deseado, if one counted the holding cells. Which lead Mao to wonder two things. “Spike, have you ever been arrested?”

  
  


He shrugged a shoulder, still distracted. “Been picked up a couple times. But those shitheads couldn't prove a fuckin' thing. They get so mad every time they have to let me go. Suckers.”

  
  


Well, that was one thing. Good, he didn't have an official record. At least that he knew of. Mao made a note to check that. “Have you been out of Deseado before?”

  
  


He studied his reflection in a marble column, rocking back and forth on his heels. “Heh, didn't even know there was an outside of it. Didn't know it was a crater.”

  
  


Care would need to be taken with this one. Mao had taken in some rough youths before. But it seemed those most deprived of social experience struggled the greatest. Growing up as a squatter in a pool hall indentured to a man who extorted his skills was hardly normal.

  
  


Mao escorted him to the dinning room. On the black granite table, surrounded by eight high back chairs, a servant placed a heaping bowl of Ramen garnished with sliced egg and chunks of simmered meat and vegetables accompanied by a glass of juice. Mao gestured to the chair.

  
  


Spike glanced at it, blinked, and looked again. He hesitated, with eyes studying Mao as if this might be some cruel trick. But it was no imagination on Mao's part. He could see the hollow in the boys stomach sucking in and back out again, anticipation. Hunger overcame any apprehension and he soon scrambled to close the distance.

  
  


Spike barely crawled up onto the chair before he dove into the bowl, shoveling and slurping it faster than he could possibly taste it. As soon as that bowl was empty, the servant replaced it.

  
  


The comparison could not be helped. From the cautious approach down to the ravenous gulping, the behavior called to mind that of a stray dog who had happened upon a rare meal. At any point that boon could be taken away in a punishing blow. Mao wondered, given how thin he was, if Joe had bothered to feed him at all, or if Spike had been forced to forage for himself in the rough streets. And even as little as Mao had walked through those slums, he knew they were treacherous for a full grown man. New found admiration that this boy still drew breath.

  
  


Mao's phone rang. He turned away and answered it. “What is it, Gates?”

  
  


“_Wanted to let you know I can verify that those White Tigers that were sniffing around are buried. We sent a message back.”_

  
  


“Good. Make sure everything is tied up.”

  
  


“_Already done.”_

  
  


He hung up and turned to find Spike resting his head on his crooked arm. Eyes closed. His other arm hanging limp at his side. The time was late after the drive between crater cities. Mao crossed the room back to his side. Apparently cleaning him up would have to wait. He gently nudged his shoulder.

  
  


Spike opened bleary eyes. But the moment Mao gestured he slid from the chair and shuffled along beside him. To Mao's surprise, considering the three empty bowls on the table, the boy didn't have anything to show for the feast. His chalk-stained shirt hung just as straight beneath the rough open vest.

  
  


Another servant opened the door just as Mao approached it. The man nodded, “The room is prepared.”

  
  


Mao waved him off and pointed inside the simple bedroom, reserved for just such occasions. “Go ahead, lie down and get some rest. This has been quite a day for you.”

  
  


Spike trudged past him, rubbing his eye with his knuckle. He yawned and flopped into the bed, curling up in the blankets. His eyes shut, breathing deepened almost in one move.

  
  


He'd never asked what Mao figured he would, what he'd heard nearly every other time, _when am I going back?_

  
  


No, Spike had simply followed. The hungry stray wandering along, chasing a vague unspoken promise. Blind trust.

  
  


Mao shut off the light and locked the door behind him. He was no fool. And the servants had orders to watch the hall to make sure the new guest stayed put for the night.

  
  


Wandering back to his office, he couldn't help but ponder.

  
  


_Spiegel. Spiegel. Why is that name so familiar?_ Parsing though the computer files, he first looked to see if the name belonged to an enforcer or an officer in the ranks.

  
  


Nothing.

  
  


The thorn twisted in his mind. He knew that last name for some reason. Searching again, in a more general sense. A file came up.

  
  


“Aha! I knew it.” Mao opened the file. His eyes locked on the information, the series of photos. His jaw loosened the further he looked at the file. Surveillance photos showed a dark haired man and woman. Both in lab coats and bland expressions. Staff photos at a lab. More photos taken through a telephoto lens filtered through scum crusted window of them working in a lab. Chemists, both of them. A married couple.

  
  


Mao scrolled further down. Photos showed a run down apartment building. Curtains billowing out a second story window. The woman reaching to shut it. Another photo outside the building showed the woman walking down the street, a young child reached up and gripped her hand. The next photo featured a covert shot of the man walking down in front of Uncle Joe's Pool Hall with a smiling young boy riding on his shoulders. Brown eyes shining in the sunlight, messy hair framed by his thrown back hands. Inside the hall, another hidden shot of the boy standing on a chair staring at the pool balls while his father lined up a shot.

  
  


His father.

  
  


Mao swallowed as he scrolled further. The final photos, a burnt out hollow of the apartment. A soot covered watch around an ashen bone among the rubble. He recognized it from the man's wrist in the other photos.

  
  


_Location: Deseado. Target: Spiegel. Attempted to recruit for drug lab. Unable to turn. Threat of competition or even exposure. As ordered by the Van, both terminated via demolition. Known child, one male approximately age 6, was not present. Whereabouts unknown. Deemed inconsequential._

  
  


The screen flickered in his darkened office. Mao leaned back in the chair and ran a hand through his hair. Of course he had known the name. His enforcers carried out that hit, six years ago.

  
  


Walking back to the room, he opened the door. The shaft of light fell over the boy, dead to the world. His eyes softly closed, one hand gripped the blanket. The other arm hung down, Mao's gold watch dangled, fallen from the wrist too thin to hold it and caught by his fingers. He retrieved it and put it inside his pocket for safe keeping, once more taking in the boy he'd found.

  
  


Spike Spiegel … inconsequential.


	2. Session 2

_ **Session 2** _

  
  


Morning sun lit up the windows as Mao approached the locked door. The servant stood up from the chair he'd been sitting in and handed over the key. The deadbolt slid back and Mao opened the door, Joe's words echoed in his head, he wondered if by chance the room would be empty despite the assigned watchman.

  
  


Light from the hall spilled into the darkened bedroom. Under the covers Spike had barely moved from the night before. His arm still dangled off the edge. The blankets rose and fell in a soft rhythm. He was still in a deep sleep.

  
  


Mao crossed the room and bent down, touching the boy's shoulder.

  
  


The reaction was a grumbled moan as Spike pulled the dangling arm up and burrowed deeper under the covers, hiding his face in the blanket.

  
  


This lazy child was supposed to be trouble? The notion seemed laughable as Mao tugged the blanket edge back. “It's time to wake up.”

  
  


Spike's eyes cracked open. With a wide yawn he stretched and took his time sitting up. He sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed his eyes with the back of his still chalk covered fingers. His stare rather blank.

  
  


Mao turned and walked toward the door. “Follow me.”

  
  


A few steps outside the door, the squeak of his shoes on the floor announced that the boy was indeed behind him, following at an easy pace through the hallways and out onto the path through the garden. Outside, Mao slowed and waited for Spike to keep pace beside him. His hands in his pockets, Spike gazed around at the terraced garden that filled the courtyard of the villa style mansion. Wysteria, orchids, and lilies bloomed beneath the cherry blossom trees. A large lake gleamed in the reddish morning light.

  
  


They made their way toward a pair of conjoined buildings a fair distance from the mansion. Mao opened the sliding door and gestured for Spike to go in. He approached the door, did a cursory glance, and then stepped inside.

  
  


In the center of a large room with a padded floor a man stood dressed in a green gi embroidered with a rearing bear, a soft smile on his face. The walls of the room were lined with banners painted with words of wisdom and shelves full of equipment. Mao stepped to the edge of the mat and gestured Spike forward.

  
  


Idly, Spike stepped onto the mat, his eyes that strange half lidded expression that made him difficult to read. The same expression that had fooled Mao into the pool hall con. Mao folded his arms, now to see what Sensei Leonard thought of this new prospect.

  
  


Spike stopped, bringing his feet together in a slouched posture about twenty feet from Leonard. Neither one moved. Curious. Most of the new arrivals walked up and tried to shake the sensei's hand. Or addressed him in some way. As if he suspected something, Spike kept a reserved distance, no sound except for his breathing.

  
  


Leonard, on the other hand, was completely silent. His practiced breathing utterly soundless as he stood, studying the boy. Until after one inhale, Leonard's whole body lunged.

  
  


The delay would have taken a stopwatch to gauge. Leonard had only taken one step before Spike backpedaled. His eyes opened wider as he stumbled, clearly realizing Leonard's incoming assault was faster. Spike instantly switched tactics into a sloppy cartwheel, carrying him at an angle and just out of the grasp of the charging master's hands. Landing a bit unsteady, Spike's shoes lost traction. He glanced over his shoulder just in time to see the sensei's open palm coming his way. Hastily, Spike ducked and rolled.

  
  


It didn't end. Leonard pursued him.

  
  


Instead of leaving his back exposed as he lost ground, Spike turned and faced him, backing up. But the pace was fast, driving him to scramble. Unable to glance behind, he backed into a wall.

  
  


The mistake had a price. With nowhere left to go, Spike shot his hands forward in a hasty attempt to catch Leonard's incoming fist. The blow landed into his cupped hands with a solid SMACK! He rolled it slightly off to the right side. Unable to deflect it completely, Leonard's strike pushed his hands into his hip. He winced, but didn't waste his breath with a cry.

  
  


_That was quick_, Mao sighed to himself. Only to cock his head. No, it wasn't over.

  
  


Spike pushed the fist off his hip with a grunt. He threw a wild strike that glanced off Leonard's shoulder and rolled out of the way, evading Leonard as he attempted to grapple. Spike's shorter strides twisted and turned as if he were debating a flat out run or facing the assault.

  
  


The debate was over the minute Leonard launched a kick at his gut. Spike's hands came up and caught it, but he didn't have the weight to resist the impact. His efforts managed to soften the blow, but sent him tumbling across the floor. He flipped into a hand spring and landed on his hands and knees immediately facing Leonard who closed in on him, with a downward punch aimed at his exposed back.

  
  


Spike released a yelp and tucked his elbow, throwing his weight into a twisting roll that ended up with him on his feet. He tried to turn his back and run. But once more Leonard's longer reach abolished that tactic. Forced to face him in a pelting rain of blows, Spike took a shambling step backward as he held out a weak guard in front of his hunched over torso. But it was insufficient. One out of every four landed in a expulsion of air. Thankfully Leonard always held back for this, at full force those fists would crack bone.

  
  


He didn't go down. His stance widened as he grit his teeth. When Leonard paused, Spike kicked and ducked, dashing past him. Leonard's hand seized the collar of the vest, bringing Spike's retreat to jerking halt, his feet carried up into the air. Before Spike even came back down, he squirmed and stretched his arms up, popping out of the vest as though he'd pulled that trick before. This gave him the chance he needed. The moment his feet hit the floor he made a mad dash and vaulted up onto a high shelf, throwing himself up into the shadows. A few pieces of equipment clattered down onto the floor.

  
  


Leonard stood in the middle of the room holding the vest in his hand at his side. An amused expression on his face as he stared into the corner where the boy had vanished. The truth was, the boy never stood a chance of winning the spontaneous bout. That was never the point of these introductions. Unlike some of the others, he hadn't surrendered.

  
  


From where he stood, Mao could see the slight eye shine in the dark where the sun from the window caught it. Panting echoed in the silent dojo.

  
  


Leonard bowed to Mao. “He's raw, but that little bastard is tough. He can take a punch like someone taught him how. His attacks hold little strategy, but that spirit doesn't give up, no matter how hopeless I made it. You have a good eye, Mao. With no family ties, this kid is perfect.”

Mao grinned. He had hoped Leonard would see what he had.

Spike emerged from the shadows, hands gripping the shelf he looked down through his sweaty hair, gasping each breath.

At Mao's side, Leonard lowered his voice just between the two of them. “However, the boy is severely malnourished. Are you certain he is twelve? I never would have guessed it.”

Mao nodded and replied quietly, all the while watching as Spike kept his eyes locked on them. “I am certain. I managed to find the record of his birth in Deseado.”

“Death Trap Deseado.” Leonard crossed his arms. “That partially explains what I just witnessed. He's agile, but lacks speed because of his stride length. He is small for his age, behind the others in weight and muscle. There's not an ounce of fat on him, which leaves him with nothing in reserve. It's a miracle something hasn't cut him down, considering the lack of resources in that crater.” He rubbed his chin. “And that makes him a survivor. Those instincts are not something developed overnight. They run too deep. That takes time and experience.” Taking a step toward the shelf, Leonard extended an open hand. “Come on down, boy. I won't hurt you.”

Between breaths Spike spat out, “Yeah, heard that one before. No thanks. S'alright with you, I'm gonna stay right here.”

Leonard chuckled. “I apologize for that, but it's the best way for me to see.”

Spike shook his head. “Shitty way to say hello … but I'm used to that. So, screw you and your apologies.” Slowly, Spike came to crouch on the edge of the shelf, his feet still under him primed to jump. He spared a quick acidic glare at Mao, then his eyes didn't leave Leonard as he reached into his jean pockets and pulled out a rumpled pack of cigarettes and a cheap plastic lighter. He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, the shaking of his hands still evident. Well, who wouldn't be rattled after that?

Locked on the glowing ember, Leonard's eyes narrowed. “That explains why he reeks of a bar room floor. Let me guess, that was where you purchased him?”

Mao nodded, the idea close enough.

“Alright,” Leonard tossed the vest onto the floor between them and sat down, crossing his legs as he addressed Spike. “Stay up there, if you like. I have some questions for you.”

“Whatever.” Spike once more resumed the half lidded eye stare.

_Good, his confidence seems to be returning. _ Mao let out a long breath.

“You tell me if I what I say is true, Spike.” Placing his hands on his knees, Leonard met his gaze. “You are a petty thief.”

He laughed, the cigarette almost falling from his mouth. “I wouldn't call it petty, but yeah. I guess you could say I'm a thief.”

“Occasionally in the alleys of Deseado someone would catch on.”

“Tch! Rarely.”

Leonard waited a moment. “Interesting, so you managed to lift a good deal … ”

“Don't want to brag or nothing, but … ”

“And yet I wonder, what did you do with it all? You hardly look well off for someone as _accomplished _as you claim.”

Spike fell silent, under Leonard's searching gaze he looked away, eyes suddenly restless.

“Leads me to guess that everything you took went somewhere. Like perhaps buying a decent meal?”

At that Spike recoiled, taking refuge in the shadows a bit more.

Leonard's eyes narrowed. “Where did it all go?”

Mao cleared his throat and waited for Spike to glance his way. “Everything went to Joe, didn't it.”

The nod was slow, barely perceptible in the dim light.

Mao steeled himself for the next question. “And did he give you anything in return?”

Spike's gaze fell to the floor, his arms wrapped around his legs. He didn't even shake his head. “No … he just … didn't kick me out. I had to get everything for myself.”

And that told volumes. Whether or not Joe had a price for the boy attempting to keep something for himself, it didn't matter. He'd clearly insured a sense of indentured servitude on Spike. Peanuts, pretzels and beer could not have kept him alive for six years. Which left the boy to scavenge.

Leonard sighed. “Tough competition in those alleys for mere scraps. No wonder you can take a hit. How often did you get jumped?”

The bravado completely abandoned him as unfocused eyes stared through the tangled hair. “I didn't keep track. Just tried to stay out of the thick of it. Filched what I could and ran. Sometimes I got away, and … ”

“Sometimes you didn't. Which explains your evasive instincts.”

Spike lifted his head and came to the edge, his eyes narrowed. “Well I taught a couple of those bastards a lesson! Should have seen their faces, they thought they had me. I ran them right into the path of that cop. They hadn't noticed I'd slipped a little gift in their pockets. Not until the cop found the drugs. Straight to lock-up they went. Never saw their asses again. Ate in peace that night.”

Leonard smiled. “What about the rest of them?”

That bravado was short lived.

“Spike, did you have anyone to watch you back? Any friends?”

His cigarette had burned down, he barely noticed as he once more became captivated with the floor. His voice barely audible, “No one will miss me.”

Turning to Mao, Leonard looked up and lowered his voice. “I'm not so sure about this one. He's pretty feral. Been a loner for a good number of years. We'll need to specialize his diet to help him catch up. He's undisciplined, or rather the only discipline he's experienced is the result of getting cornered in a alley. There's no way I can put him with the others until he can hold his own, or he'd have better odds on the streets of Deseado, and you know how abysmal those are.”

“The raw talent … ?”

Leonard lifted a shoulder. “Is there in spades. But it's very raw. He doesn't know what to do with it.”

Staring at the boy, Mao made up his mind. “I've brought you raw recruits before, I want you to train him.”

“In what?”

“Anything he will learn. I'll leave his path up to your judgment.”

Leonard addressed Spike once more. “Can you read?” That was something they had found in various states among the incoming boys. Some could, most were completely illiterate. Mao doubted that Joe had bothered.

Spike glanced at one of the banners on the wall, his voice tripped over the words as he slowly quoted it, “_If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles. If you know yourself but not the enemy, for every victory gained you will also suffer a defeat. If you know neither the enemy nor yourself, you will succumb in every battle. _”

Mao rubbed his chin. “Surprising. How did you learn?”

He shrugged, “Fetching liquor bottles from the storeroom. Had to know what they were.”

“Spike,” Leonard pointed at the banner he'd read, “do you understand what that means?”

His eyes narrowed, following the letters a couple of times until Mao assumed he could not answer. Instead, Spike locked eyes with the sensei still seated on the floor waiting patiently. “It means you better know what the fuck you're getting into or your ass is gonna get beat one way or another.”

Leonard's grin widened.

A long silence filled the room. Eventually, Spike climbed down from the shelf when no one had moved. His wary eyes watched as he edged his way towards the discarded vest that lay between them and picked it up. He carefully shrugged back into it. The only possessions he had, the ill-fitted clothes on his back.

Leonard extended a hand to Spike. “Let's have a talk about a technique called Jeet Kune Do, I think that will suit you nicely. But first, how about we clean you up and uhhh … wash those clothes.”

*

Something was different today. Vicious lurked in the dorm doorway staring through the strands of his hair. The other boys, ages ranging from eight to sixteen, confined to this place wasted their time perched on their bunks playing silly games and chatting.

All a waste. They should be in the dojo, drilling. His fingers pulsed into a fist. He longed to hit something, no … someone. To feel flesh and bone damaged beneath his assault. It's what they were here to learn. To kill. Not to sit around chasing a hollow victory playing War with cards.

The rules, ridiculous as they were, commanded that no one was to fight outside of the dojo, without the sensei's strict permission. And yet, Vicious eyed the fellow students, his mind running through every weakness each boy possessed. Four years of training under the sensei. Four years honing the true Art of War. Four years forced to live among these worms all for the promise that one day he would be released from these endless mock battles and be called to serve.

That day would not come from idle games.

The pounding of shoes down the hall caught his attention. Vicious peered around the doorjamb to find Kieran, a boy two years younger dashing toward them. He'd been gone for a half hour on orders from Vicious to find out why their sensei had canceled lessons today.

Breathless, Kieran leaned against the wall, gripping his sides. The others gathered around, abandoning their activities as they fixed their attention on him.

Vicious grabbed his shirt and pulled him close. “Well?”

Kieran gasped in a few more breaths. “Another.”

“Another what?”

He pointed down the hall. “I saw another boy.”

_Another boy? Well, that didn't take long to replace the last failure. His blood had barely been mopped from the dojo floor._ “How long ago?”

Kieran shrugged. “I saw master Yenrai take him through the garden. Didn't look very old. You've been here longer than most of us, Vicious. How soon til he joins us?”

Vicious scowled and released Kieran, shoving him aside. Over a dozen boys drew back as he stalked through the dorm passing by the empty cot that would soon hold yet another to be tested. Another for the sensei to waste his time training. He drew his nails along the metal frame, dislodging paint chips.

That question wasn't worth the answer. The real question was what would they do to welcome their new dorm mate. To let him know immediately where he stood in their ranks … and what place he'd be staying in.


	3. Session 3

_ **Session 3** _

_Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe … zzzzzzzz._

  
  


A second later, Spike yelped as Sensei Leonard cuffed him. He stared into the stern gaze in the mirror as they knelt facing their reflections.

  
  


Sensei narrowed his eyes. “This is nothing to joke about. Breathing exercises are the core of training.”

  
  


_I think my body knows how to breathe by now, been doin' it just fine my whole life. _ Spike rolled his eyes. That earned him a second cuffing, hard enough to leave his ear smarting. “Ow!”

  
  


“That's enough. Meditation is not nap time.”

  
  


Spike folded his arms across his chest, his fingers caught awkwardly in the crossover of the white gi he'd been handed. He adjusted his hands and took a deep breath, releasing it slowly.

  
  


“Alright, let's try this again.” Sensei closed his eyes and started the deep breathing again.

  
  


Since the man couldn't see, Spike matched his breathing but kept his eyes cracked open. The con worked for about ten breaths.

  
  


“Eyes closed, Spike.”

  
  


_How did he … ? _ Spike blinked.

  
  


Turning to him, Sensei focused his hard stare. Despite his efforts, Spike wilted under the gaze. The accusation bit hard, “You have trouble closing your eyes, don't you.”

  
  


“I … uhhh … no?” Spike swallowed, but he couldn't force the eye contact.

  
  


“Why? I trust there is a reason.”

  
  


“No, there's no reason. Cause, well … ” That searching continued, without even saying a further word, Sensei wrung it out. Spike's shoulders fell and he muttered, “It's stupid.”

  
  


“It's because then you cannot see if someone approaches, right?”

  
  


Spike bit his lip, heat blossomed on his cheeks. In the mirror's reflection he couldn't escape the blushing.  _Damn it! How did he guess? Was it that obvious?_

  
  


“That's easy to fix.” Sensei rested his hands on his knees, the gaze softened. “You have more than one sense, do you not? Simply use the others. But, to do so, you'll need to breathe properly. I want you to try it.”

  
  


Sitting up straighter, Spike wrinkled his nose. “Are you serious?”

  
  


“I am.” Sensei shifted around and knelt in front of him, face to face, only of course he was much taller. He held up a hand. Despite his efforts to suppress the reflex, Spike flinched. “Relax. I will not strike you. That test is finished. I want you to close your eyes and just breathe. Take your time and enter the rhythm. I will reach toward you. Concentrate on what you hear. On the air against your skin.”

  
  


Shaking his head, Spike planted his hands on his knees. “I think you're crazy, but whatever.”

  
  


He shut his eyes. Everything went dark. Aware that he was not alone, Spike's heart rate increased. A bead of sweat blossomed. Each breath came faster. The rasp of his breathing filled his ears. He took a deep breath. _Nope, slower. Slower. Calm the fuck down. _He had to concentrate, suppressing the welling panic that threatened to build. In … out … in … out … With each cycle the tension ebbed, his heart beat slowed. Nothing happened.

  
  


No … that wasn't right. Something happened. The hairs on his arms pricked, a slow constant air flow across his skin. Soft echoes built in the apparent silence. It wasn't silent at all. Faint rustles of Sensei's breathing as the fabric shifted. The cadence was steady, the man was still.

  
  


Then it changed. A subtle shift in the current. The quiet rasp of the fabric cut by a sound growing closer. Closer.

  
  


Not opening his eyes, Spike reached up in the darkness in a blind snatch. His hand enclosed the sinewy wrist several inches from his chest. Spike opened his eyes and stared in surprise. He noted he wasn't the only one.

  
  


Sensei blinked not even concealing his shock. “You weren't peeking.”

  
  


He shook his head. “No … that shit actually worked. How?”

  
  


“I'll be damned. I figured you'd sense it, but not be able to target it that precisely.” With a laugh, Sensei placed a hand to his own chest. “When we are still, like the surface of a pond, we become sensitive to all manner of vibrations. It is the foundation that allows us access to our full potential. Now, I assure you, when you and I meditate in this room, that is all we are doing. You can allow yourself to relax into it.”

  
  


Spike took a deep breath and let it out. Closing his eyes, he felt the air current once more punctuated by the slow rhythm set by the sensei. Muscle by muscle tension abandoned his limbs. He sank into the embrace, relieved for the first time since he could recall as he allowed the painful edge he had constantly clung to for survival to slide away breath by breath. In the back of his mind a thread remained, _don't let his words be a lie, don't betray me, please don't betray me._

  
  


The passage of time stretched out as Spike sank down into the silent depths. Drifting.

  
  


“Alright, take it slow.” Sensei's voice broke through, soft as a whisper. It sounded miles away. “Come on back to the surface now.”

  
  


Spike realized it was intentional, a gentle nudge. Unwilling to emerge, he found the stillness oddly inviting. But a slow mantra penetrated, summoning him back. Fiber by fiber he returned.

  
  


At last Sensei's calm voice bid him, “Open your eyes.”

  
  


The room was too bright at first. He blinked and stretched, another surprise as it felt as though he had taken a good nap in the refuge of the pool hall … when Joe had been in a good mood. He rubbed his eyes to clear them.

  
  


Sensei placed his fist into his palm and waited. Slowly, Spike copied the gesture as well as the bow. “I'm surprised, Spike. You sunk deep. Took awhile to get you back. Don't look ashamed, that was good.” He got to his feet and offered a hand.

  
  


Pensively, Spike took it, thoughts of those fists driving at him set his hip throbbing. He hadn't even looked to see if the bruising had started. On his bare feet he had to look up at the sensei. “Alright, now remember that breathing technique. We're going to go through some real simple exercises. Just do what I do and breathe with each one. Slow, and smooth.”

  
  


The sensei moved his hands slowly out in front of him. Half a step behind, Spike copied him. A footstep forward, a movement of the arm. Every thing was at a snail's pace. Awkward. It left Spike's limbs trembling from the tension, slightly unsteady on one foot.

  
  


“You're wobbling.”Sensei paused. “Your first true lesson. Balance is key. When and where to shift your weight.” Widening his stance he leaned back on his heel. “Push me. It's alright.”

  
  


Cautiously, Spike pushed on his extended palm. He was easy to move. The sensei smiled and in one smooth move he shifted his weight to his front foot. Suddenly, he was rock solid. Spike doubled down, trying to make him budge with both hands and his full weight behind it. Once Spike was committed, Sensei shifted his weight and abandoned the space, sliding off to the side. Spike shot past him like a charging bull.

  
  


“You see? It's all about where the center of balance is. You control your own, you can shift that control to someone else if they let you.”

  
  


Spike blinked, but already he was rocking back and forth exploring the subtle changes. The distance and angle of his bare feet. The sensei smiled and stood watching. Spike leaned forward leading with one shoulder then the other. Every slight change made a huge difference.

  
  


At last, Sensei stood with his palms together. “Try this.”

  
  


Spike watched and mimicked the reflection in the mirror. Every muscle twitched in the slow motions as he lifted one leg and leaned forward, spreading his arms for balance. He wobbled in the stance, unlike the sensei.

  
  


“Feel it out. Let it settle.” Sensei held it steady, waiting until he moved.

  
  


Biting his lip, Spike stared in frustration as his limbs shifted. So unlike the rock-stable teacher at his side.

  
  


“You're forcing it. Let it happen. Relax.”

  
  


Taking a deep, frustration laden breath, Spike let it out and with it the tension of his limbs. Contrary to his instincts, it worked. The stance stabilized.

  
  


“Good, now, shift a little. See how each tiny motion changes things.”

  
  


How odd, to stand before a mirror and for the first time become truly aware of his own body. Fascinated by the minute alterations of balance, Spike lost himself in the flow of a series of exercises keying into the center and how it moved.

  
  


*

  
  


Everything was silent. An exercise in stealth. Vicious stood at the end of the solitary cot flanked by two boys, Gable and Kieran. In this single room, sequestered on the other side of the dojo just down the hall from the sensei's room, held their target. Under the covers a young boy lay sound asleep.

  
  


Vulnerable.

  
  


In what little evening light filtered through the window, Vicious stared at the outline of this new addition to his group. The boy was small, thin, a half-starved thing that hardly looked threatening. He didn't need both the boys he'd brought for this. He could do it himself.

  
  


It always paid to be thorough. Make certain to drive the point home with witnesses. After all, there was only one chance to make a first impression. And this is one that would _never_ be forgotten. Vicious was certain of that.

  
  


His fingers ran over the knotted silken cord cut from the dojo's banner. Vicious had selected that banner himself. _“The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting.” _What better way to illustrate that … he gave a nod to Gable.

  
  


The muscular boy grabbed onto the cord they'd slung up over a rafter and tugged hard! The cord came taught around the sleeping boy's right ankle. But the light weight couldn't resist Gable's power. Dragged backward, the boy's eyes snapped open as he scrambled in a panic.

  
  


Vicious smiled as the boy's hands grappled uselessly as he came to dangle from one leg. A leg, Vicious noted, that bore a patch of rough flesh from a recently healed wound on the back of the calf. The boy's head struck the metal bedpost, a blossom of red on his forehead. A panicked scream left his throat. Music to Vicious's ear.

  
  


With their victim hanging at their mercy as Gable held his thrashing body suspended in the air, Vicious drew back and delivered a solid palm strike to the gut. The boy's screaming stopped, cut off by an expulsion of air. He paused for a moment, gripping his chest, but then resumed his struggle. This time in silence, the thrashing grew more frantic.

  
  


Kieran punched the boy's back as he swung around, smiling at the sight. A moment later the boy's fist bloodied Kieran's nose, leaving him howling in pain. Pushing Kieran aside, Vicious snarled, “Trust you to not even be able to stand up to a snared victim.” Strike after strike, Vicious landed blows and evaded the wild scrambling of limbs. “You're lucky,” he glanced down at Kieran, “this one might actually be more useless than you.”

  
  


Kieran, still gripping his nose, looked anywhere but Vicious's direction.

  
  


“What's going on?” Sensei's voice accompanied his hasty footsteps.

  
  


Vicious waved a hand. Gable released the cord, dropping their swinging victim onto the floor as they grabbed onto Kieran's collar and dragged him out of the room. Bare feet pounding down the hall, they didn't make it far before the sensei seized Kieran from their hands. Vicious and Gable turned.

  
  


Sensei Leonard glared hard at them, pulling Kieran's hand back to expose his battered and swelling nose. “What did I tell you last time?”

  
  


Gable obediently muttered, “That we weren't to be on this side of the dojo.”

  
  


“What part of that is difficult to understand?” He stared into Vicious's eyes.

  
  


Vicious crossed his arms and remained silent.

  
  


“Fine. You three are so wide awake, go clean the main practice room. I expect every surface to be properly maintained by sunrise, and all three of you ready to begin lessons. Am I clear?”

  
  


The other two replied, “Yes, Sensei.” Vicious, locked in an icy silence, turned on his heel and made for the dojo. Impression made. That's all that mattered. That boy would never forget.

  
  


*

  
  


As soon as the boys had vanished around the corner on their punishment, Leonard ran full tilt for the bedroom. It was silent, dark, the blanket had been thrown in the struggle. The cut cord, he recognized from the dojo, still hung over the rafter, the other end lay askew, the silken knot released. Not a sign of Spike, save a few droplets of blood in the wrong place to have been Kieran's.

  
  


“Damn those boys!” He made his way into the room, searching the floor to follow the droplets.

  
  


Back in the corner, tangled in the curtains, he heard the choked sob. A boy trying hard to swallow it and failing.

  
  


“Spike, you can come out. They're gone now.”

  
  


A full minute passed. Then Spike sprang from the curtains. A trickle of blood from his forehead, hot tears in his eyes. He threw wild punches and yelled bloody murder, scrambling as Leonard caught him and held him from making the worst possible choice.

  
  


“Stop. You can't take them on right now.” The boy was so easy to hold, even in his manic state. Nothing to him.

  
  


“I'm gonna make them pay!”

  
  


He gripped Spike's shoulders, absorbing the impotent pounding of his fists. “No, you won't. If you tried as you are now they'd shred you. Trust me, boy, I've trained them. You are not prepared for what they are capable of.” Looking him over, he seemed more shaken than injured. The cut looked worse than it was, as head wounds tended to be. Cleaning that up, Leonard heaved a sigh.. as his newest student stood before him, shivering not in fear but frustration. “Alright, you're not going to sleep like this. Put your gi on and meet me in the practice room. Looks like foundations are over.”

  
  


Leonard strode out of the room with a backward glance. Spike scrubbed the tears from his eyes determination burning in his gaze.

  
  


_Damn it, that's not how I wanted this to start. _


	4. Session 4

_ **Session 4** _

  
  


Barefoot, Spike tiptoed through the deserted hall. Over an hour ago, Sensei had left him after the impromptu middle of the night lesson. Still pumped up from the morning's hazing, he knew he couldn't meditate on his own, as he'd been instructed to.

  
  


There were other boys.

  
  


That had been quite a shock. And yet he realized it shouldn't have been. After all, Sensei and Yenrai had mentioned others. But others his age? On the other side of the dojo? There was another side? Too great of a lure, he abandoned the small private room to explore.

  
  


Silence had pervaded the whole of his tiny little world for a full hour. Encouraged, Spike snuck through the hall discovering the locked door. He reached into his jean pocket and pulled out the lock pick. It was short work, the simple lock yielded to his skilled fingers.

  
  


He slipped into the hallway and kept tight to the wall, drawn toward the periodic chorus of shouts. Peering around the corner he beheld a large room. The walls were either windows showing the sun shining off the water or mirrors reflecting the boys standing in tight rows all mimicking the sensei's sure moves. They were drilling, performing routines in a similar fashion to what Spike had done early in the morning. Only much more advanced.

  
  


Over a dozen of them, various ages, spread out across the floor all dressed similar to what Spike had been given for training. A plain simple white gi. Though he noted many bore faint stains, splatters like diluted blood. Proof that things were going to get real at some point in the near future.

  
  


Front and center to the group his eyes caught the silver-haired boy from the other night. Flanked by the other two. The larger brute of a boy and the smaller one, who now sported two black eyes and a bruised nose. Spike grinned, he'd left his mark on that one. Granted, it had been a total accident, it still counted. Right?

  
  


But his eyes drifted back to the fair-haired boy. His stance and strikes to the air portrayed refined aggression. Violet colored eyes stared with pure venom through the mirror as he kicked and threw punches, exhaling each breath with a harsh call. He was precise. He was strong. He was a beacon drawing the others as they observed him.

  
  


Spike felt a thrill run down his spine as he imagined being among them. He didn't even know a fraction of what they were doing, and yet the smallest among them had a glint of confidence in his eyes as he turned into the forms.

  
  


Sensei called them to a halt, bringing his fist into his palm. “To the edges.” The boys quickly left the center of the mat, toeing the lines that drew a box on the floor as they knelt in orderly rows. Sensei gestured to the silver-haired boy. “Vicious, as you have insisted on calling yourself, you and Gable will spar.”

  
  


The other boy, the same who had been holding the cord earlier, stepped up to the line opposite Vicious. Curious name, Spike mused and pressed closer to the corner, keeping just out of sight as he watched the reflections. Gable eyed the sensei, a note of panic in his eyes. He sunk into the stance, a tremble seizing his hands. Vicious sunk down into the posture. Cold confidence oozed from him as he held out his hand leading with a palm flared.

  
  


A smile distorted Vicious's face. Something twisted. Not a smile of joy. This expression mocked pleasure, drawing from a dark well deep inside. Even before he moved, Spike couldn't deny that boy left him with a strange vibe.

  
  


Sensei dropped his hand. The match began.

  
  


Vicious lunged into Gable driving his fist through the attempt to guard. In a cracking blow to the chest, Gable bent over only to receive a follow through from a kick. He went down in a breathless pile. His hands came up to protect his head even as Vicious drew back for another strike.

  
  


“Enough.” Sensei called out.

  
  


That didn't stop the follow through. Vicious's strike connected in between Gable's shoulder blades, releasing a cry.

  
  


Sensei folded his arms. “Why must you always do that?”

  
  


Vicious met his gaze, the smile vanishing, leaving behind an emotionless expression. “There is no point in showing mercy to the enemy.”

  
  


“Gable is not your enemy, you do not need to destroy him. He is merely a sparring partner.”

  
  


“An unworthy one.” The tone was almost bored. “Just like the rest, none of them challenge me. It's hard to take them seriously.”

  
  


Sensei narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms. “We're not discussing this now. You, Gable, and Kieran are still in trouble for that stunt you pulled last night.”

  
  


“That wasn't a stunt. It was an impression.”

  
  


“The rules are the rules. There is no fighting outside of the designated rooms. I thought I made that clear last time.”

  
  


Gable had pried himself off the mat and now knelt beside Kieran. The names where easy to deduce as they both tucked their heads in guilt. The other boys all glanced at the guilty party. Some snickered, others looked worried.

  
  


“Gable, I trust you see your folly and won't be so swift to disobey my orders next time.” He glanced at the other boy. “I spared Kieran because he already took a shot to the face for following Vicious.”

  
  


Vicious lifted his chin, still standing in the center of the mat. “I didn't need his help. I am more than a match for that scrawny thing Yenrai dragged in.”

  
  


Stepping into the mat, Sensei towered over Vicious. “What _your master_ brings in is his business, not yours. And if you ever plan on leaving this dojo, as you feel you are competent already, you must learn respect.”

  
  


“Show me something worthy of my respect.”

  
  


Sensei's fists tightened so much he trembled. After a moment, he crossed the room, picked up the banner and threw the cut cord on it. “You are done training for today. Instead you will spend your time repairing the damage you have done to my grandfather's banner.”

  
  


With a breath through a nose, Vicious grabbed the bundle from his arms and stalked to a corner of the room. Spike realized the boy was coming his way. He agreed with Sensei, he wasn't ready to face them yet. Silent as possible, he dashed back down the hall, locking the door behind him.

  
  


Intriguing. Every last bit of it. Spike laid down in the bed and cradled his head in his hands. That glimpse fueled his desire to train. Sure he didn't have a clue what he was doing yet. But now he had incentive.

  
  


*

  
  


Today's lessons were as turbulent as Leonard had suspected they would be after the night's events. Vicious, that boy. No matter what he did he couldn't convince him to drop the name. If he had his say that boy would be turned out of the dojo for his unruly behavior. Four years since entering training had done nothing to change his attitude for the better. If anything the more skillful he became, the more arrogantly he flaunted. Unfortunately, the final say in any matter was Mao's. And the Red Dragon Capo had promised the boy's mother he would forge a future. He was honor bound. One way or another, Vicious was slated to become an enforcer.

  
  


Each passing lesson he felt less confidence that Vicious would survive initiation. Not because he wasn't tough or skilled enough. Quite the opposite, because he would likely throw a punch at the biggest guy in a bar just to prove a point. It was a good thing he was only a twelve-year-old. Leonard had a valid excuse to keep him in training.

  
  


Locking the door behind him, he padded toward the small bedroom. “Spike?” The room was empty. A faint huffing sound caught his attention. He followed it to the smaller training room and paused in the doorway.

  
  


Spike, already dressed to practice, was working through the routine he'd been shown early that morning. By now it was late afternoon, and he had shown remarkable progress in shifting his balance. This was not the soft routine he'd taught the day before, but one that involved employing force. Leonard hated to rush to attack and defense strategies, but as usual his boys had other ideas. No matter what he did, Spike was within their reach.

  
  


Spike turned out of one of the moves and looked toward him, a moment of surprise crossing his features before he placed a fist in his palm and bowed. “I figured I'd get started early, Sensei.”

  
  


Hope sparked in that gesture. The skittish boy that had scrambled for the safety of a high shelf now stood in the middle of the room starting his routine on his own. Not defiant, but an honorable self-initiative. Leonard dared to believe that there might be a bit of hope for this little one. “Did you eat?”

  
  


Spike nodded. “Yes, not sure what was on the tray in my room, but it was tasty. Especially the little meat chunks.”

  
  


Good. The pale boy still needed a good deal to catch up.

  
  


Leonard smiled and strode to the center, facing the mirror, “Let's take that routine from the start. If you have it down, we'll add some more segments.”

  
  


Immediately, Spike took the first stance before the mirror. A calm determination in his eyes.


	5. Session 5

_ **Session 5** _

  
  


The days cycled onward, unbroken in their tedium. Breakfast, training privately with the sensei, orders to stay on that side and meditate, ignoring that order and picking the lock to eavesdrop on the other boys' advanced lessons. 

  
  


But today Spike's attention turned elsewhere. Outside the sun shown down on the water. It'd been well over a week since he'd arrived here. All that time he hadn't set foot outside the building. The lure of a breeze against his skin proved too great to resist. He turned his picks to another door. It yielded to his deft fingers as though he had the actual key.

  
  


A warm breeze toyed with his hair as Spike wandered through the aromatic gardens. Flowers were such a novel thing. So many colors and scents as he drifted through the winding paths. Hands in his pockets, he followed the most likely path down to the sparkling lake, drawn by the powerful scent of lake water. It spoke to him, though he didn't understand its language. Patterns twisted in the light, dazzling as he tried to follow them. 

  
  


Crouching on a wall, he dragged his hand in the cool water and studied the way it sent out ripples. Above him the branches of a tree stretched out, casting shadows for the waves to play with. He stared up into the foliage touching the leaves. Another thing he hadn't seen. So little green in the dreary crater of his birth. None of it natural like this. The leaf fell into the water, floating in a circle. Spike poked at it, watching it resist sinking. 

  
  


The snap of a twig caught his attention. Spike spun on his heel, instincts flared. He hadn't been out of the frying pan long enough for their effect to quell. 

  
  


The threat; a girl, close to his age, maybe a touch older, peered around the tree trunk. Confusion in her eyes, but not fear. She wasn't dirty, or scrawny like the kids Spike was used to. More like the boys in the dojo. Clean. Well fed. Her brown hair combed and brushed. She wore a simple dress with a sash at the waist. Granted, Spike's jeans, shirt and vest had been properly washed, but they were still quite shabby compared to her cloths. 

  
  


“Who are you?” She stayed partially behind the tree as though it could protect her. 

  
  


Spike blinked and lowered his hands into his pockets. “Why should I tell you?”

  
  


She wrinkled her nose. “Cause, I asked. And you should tell me.”

  
  


_ What kind of logic was that?  _ “Says who?”

  
  


“Well … ” She stepped out from behind the tree, crossing her arms over her chest. “It's good manners.”

  
  


Spike laughed. “Yeah, well, I ain't got those. So, no dice, toots.”

  
  


“That's not my name. You should always use a girl's proper name.”

  
  


“Sure, whatever. But I don't know your name. So I kinda can't.”

  
  


“Oh.” She chewed on a finger, glancing back towards the mansion in the distance before her gaze met his. “Annie. Now you have to tell me yours.”

  
  


He heaved a sigh. “Spike.”

  
  


Annie cupped her hands over her mouth and giggled. “No seriously.”

  
  


“I am serious. That's my name.” It was his turn to cross his arms over his chest. 

  
  


“What kind of a name is Spike?”

  
  


Heat rose to his cheeks. “The name my parents gave me! What kind of a name is Annie?”

  
  


She forced herself to stop laughing and shrugged. “It just sounds silly, that's all.”

  
  


Kicking a rock into the lake, Spike huffed. “Well … I guess I never thought about it. But it's not like I chose it or anything.” He bent down staring at the ripples as the rock vanished. “Whoa … ”

  
  


Annie leaned over the edge to see what he was looking at. She chuckled. “You've never seen a lake before?”

  
  


His reflection settled on the surface. A scruffy young boy, thin-faced and pale. The faint line on his forehead where the boys' hazing had marked him remained. He wanted to reach into the depths, beyond the surface of the water. “No … there wasn't anything like this. Lotsa dirty rain. Puddles in the alleys here and there. But nothing this size.” A bird swooped down and landed on a water-rimmed rock. Green plumage gleaming on its long neck, it cocked its head back and forth, long beak primed.

  
  


Annie pointed. “That's a green heron. Watch. Looks like it's spotted a fish.” 

  
  


A moment later the lanky bird launched itself like a spear. The water swallowed it in a series of ripples. The surface stilled. Spike fixated on the point. Birds flew in the sky, not the water. Unless he was wrong.

  
  


Walking further along, Annie pointed to a subtle wake. “Watch.”

  
  


A moment later the heron bobbed to the surface, a large fish clutched in its jaws.

  
  


Spike stared in amazement as it threw its head back and gulped it down. “How deep is the water? How did it do that?”

  
  


Annie shrugged. “Deep enough to dive.” A knotted rope swung from the tree where she pointed now. “And herons can swim.”

  
  


“Swim?”

  
  


She wrinkled her nose. “You're pretty clueless.”

  
  


“I am not ! Just … uhhh … well, never see it before.”

  
  


Reaching down, Annie pulled up her dress and revealed a one piece swimming suit. “Watch.” She kicked off her shoes and ran down the dock, diving into the water. 

  
  


Spike dashed after her, panic thrummed as the water closed over her head. 

  
  


Moments later, her head bobbed up and she waved at him, kicking her feet. “We float. Come on. Jump in.”

  
  


Staring down, the water lost the welcoming blue color. Darkness swirled below him. Spike tugged the laces of his canvas sneakers loose, remembering the squelch from the puddles in the alleyways. He discarded his vest and shirt on the dock, leaving his jeans on. Standing at the edge, his toes curled.  _ She floats, so I should too. Right? _

  
  


“Go on. Feet first it you like. Take a deep breath and just relax. You'll come right back up to the surface.”

  
  


Spike swallowed a huge gulp of air, filling his lungs. He had, after all, been held face down in a puddle before. Steeling himself he couched down and jumped. Gravity seized him. The cold embrace of the water closed over his head. Every sound become a low thrum, almost a crushing silence. For a moment he panicked as he kept sinking into the black abyss. Until … he didn't. His descent stalled and gravity reversed, pulling him upward toward the daylight. Breaking the surface, Spike wobbled awkwardly onto his back, sputtering and trying to rub the water from his face. 

  
  


“See? Told yah!” Annie splashed water over him.

  
  


Trusting this odd sensation, Spike swiped his arm through the water and sent a wave over her. He attempted to turn over, unable to touch the bottom. The moment he tried his head slipped under. He came back up coughing out a mouthful of the lake.

  
  


Annie laughed. “You can't breathe water, stupid!”

  
  


“I know—” He gasped, laying back in the float. “I know that now.”

  
  


The light danced closer to the horizon by the time Spike and Annie dragged themselves from the water, fingers and toes wrinkled from their long stay. Annie smiled. “You're really getting the hang of it.”

  
  


“You see that marker out there?” He pointed to the channel depth marker, a fair distance from the shore. “I'll swim out and touch that!”

  
  


“Tomorrow?”

  
  


He snapped a nod. “Tomorrow!”

  
  


She folded her arms. “You're not that good yet. And the current around the lake gets pretty rough that far out.”

  
  


“Oh yeah? Wanna make a bet?”

  
  


Annie grinned. “Yeah! See you tomorrow, Spike.”

  
  


*

  
  


Mao stood beside the desk, glancing over the details. “Gates, these little uprisings are annoying. They need to be buried.”

  
  


Lee Gates, one of his trusted ranked enforcers, lifted a shoulder. “I have my men spread out all over. We peg the rats as soon as they enter our territory. But it seems that the tower in Tharsis has garnered attention we don't want. We're trying to pin down their source, but they don't seem to have an effective base. At least not a single one.”

  
  


“Do we know which syndicate they're from?”

  
  


He shook his head. “Despite our best interrogation, none have uttered a word who they work for. We have yet to see anyone particularly skilled. They aren't cream of the crop, though. Mao, some of your boys in training could probably take on these grunts. It's like they're trying to overwhelm us with easy hired goons. It's possible these sacrifices don't even know who hired them.”

  
  


Mao heaved a sigh. “That would explain the lack of strategy. Well, keep me informed. And keep trying to get … ” Gate's head snapped up, staring behind him out the window. “What is it?”

  
  


“Is that your niece down by the lake?”

  
  


That alone wasn't unusual. She liked to swim. But Gates had been here enough to know she had Mao's blessing to roam his estate.

  
  


He turned in time for Gate's second question. “Who is she with?”

  
  


Another figure, close to her size stood on the edge of the dock silhouetted against the water.

  
  


“I have no idea, no one is supposed to be.” Mao dashed for the door, his heartbeat pounding. All of the boys should be in training right now under lock and key. No one else was permitted on his fenced off estate. If anything happened to her … standing on the rise of the hill above the water, Gates just behind him, he growled out, “Anastasia!” 

  
  


The boy on the dock had been reaching down, helping her out of the water. At Mao's voice he froze, half glancing his way. Instantly Mao recognized him. Though a week and half's worth of good food had helped, Spike was still thin as a rail. His soaked jeans clung to his legs as he braced himself, Annie's hand in his as she climbed onto the dock. Water pooled around the children's feet, they hung on the end of the dock, Spike with his hands rammed in his pockets, and Annie standing with her arms splayed as if to hide Spike's already obvious presence. 

  
  


“Anastasia, get up here now. Both of you!” Mao pointed at a spot in front of him. To his relief both children climbed up the path, gravel crunching beneath bare feet. 

  
  


Annie came to a halt before him. “Uncle Mao.”

  
  


Spike visibly stiffened, glancing between Annie and Mao fast enough that droplets of water flung from his hair. 

  
  


“You said I could swim!” she protested.

  
  


“I did.” Mao shifted his gaze to Spike, the boy had sense enough to look down. “What I want to know is what  _ he _ is doing here?”

  
  


Spike bit his lip, one hand rubbing his arm.

  
  


Annie stomped a foot in the path. “We've been playing. Don't you dare punish him! At least someone pays attention to me while you're busy all day.”

  
  


“Playing?” Mao's expression darkened, he addressed Spike. “That's not what you are supposed to be doing. Why aren't you in the dojo with the others?”

  
  


“I'm not with them, yet. Sensei's working with the others right now.” Spike's voice gained a little confidence as he peered up through the tangled mass of his hair dripping with lake water. “I got bored, wanted to explore a little bit. Never seen a place like this, Yenrai.”

  
  


“The door is locked.”

  
  


Spike shrugged and wriggled his fingers, a brief flash of something metal appeared and disappeared. “Not very well. Besides, these last three days she's been teaching me how to swim.”

  
  


The door locks? Not very well? The boy had unlocked the door … Rubbing his chin, Mao glanced between the two. Annie was indeed a gifted swimmer. If the story was true … “Show me.”

  
  


Spike blinked and glanced between Mao and Gates. He turned on the ball of his foot and to Mao's surprise took a running start for the knotted rope. He grabbed onto it and swung out high over the water. Releasing his hold he flailed in the air, coming down feet first in a hard splash. The circle closed above his head. 

  
  


Mao and Gates darted forward, he expected they'd need to retrieve a drowned boy. 

  
  


But a moment later, Spike surfaced and stroked for the dock. Coordinated, and fairly efficient he dragged himself onto the dock. Sauntering back to them with his jean's askew. The right pant leg pushed up to his knee. He turned and pointed out to the channel marker. “Made it halfway out there this afternoon. But Annie's right, the current's a bitch! I'll need to work at it a lot more to reach that.”

  
  


Mao glanced down at the boy's calf, a ragged patch of scared flesh showed several recently healed puncture wounds. The pattern seemed to be obvious, and matching the frayed tear in the pant leg. “There's no way you could have learned that where you came from.”

  
  


Gates cocked his head. “Sir?”

  
  


Turning up to the enforcer. “Deseado.”

  
  


Instantly Gates shook his head. “Oh hell no. The deepest water in that pit is in a bathtub. Looks like the story adds up. Annie had to have taught him.”

  
  


Spike glanced at Annie and muttered. “If I had known she was your niece—”

  
  


Annie socked him in the shoulder shutting him up. “What difference does that make?”

  
  


Mao took a step toward his naive charge. “Every difference.”

  
  


Thrusting her finger up at him, she spat, “Don't you punish him, Uncle Mao. I've had more fun over the last few days than all the time I've spent in this cold place.”

  
  


He heaved a sigh, releasing what would have been a sentence separating the youths. She had taught Spike a skill he would need anyway. Leonard taught all the boys to swim so they wouldn't drown. “Fine … as long as he isn't busy with his own lessons.”

  
  


Annie went up on her tiptoes and kissed Mao. Fetching her dress and shoes she danced up the path to the house. Spike's pensive stare followed her.

  
  


Mao clamped a hand on his arm. Spike practically jumped out of his skin. “Let me make this abundantly clear. My niece is  _ everything _ to me, boy! If anything happens to her when you are around I will make you wish you had never left that cesspit you were born in. Do you understand?”

  
  


He nodded rather swiftly. 

  
  


“Go on, back to your room and lock the door you picked behind you. It's nearly dinner.”

  
  


After Spike had collected his shirt and shoes, vanishing up the path, Mao sighed. “I indulge that girl too much.”

  
  


Gates took in the lakeside garden. “It's a lonely place. I take it that boy is newly arrived?”

  
  


“Yes, just shy of two weeks.” 

  
  


“He lacks discipline and a number of other things.”

  
  


Mao started up the path. “He'll learn. Or he'll find his welcome worn out, be damned my niece's wish.”

  
  



	6. Session 6

_ **Session 6** _

  
  


Rain pattered against the windowpane. Spike burrowed deeper under the covers, fighting to hide the welling panic as wave after wave of memories threatened to carry him away. In the dark room lightening slashed through the cracks in his eyelids. Weary after a long day of training, unable to distract himself earlier with a visit to Annie because of the weather, Spike fought desperately for the embrace of sleep.

  
  


A state his heart raced into … forced back to a place he never wanted to see again …

  
  


*

  
  


Straight down the cue the balls all lined up. Well, not in a direct line. Even though Spike couldn't see the diamond that had long since rubbed from the rail, it didn't matter. Experience told him that his true target, the ball directly off his left hand was going into the corner pocket. The moment he called the shot, his opponent spat his whiskey.

“Kid, you lookin' at the same table I am?”

Spike took a lungful of smoke from his cigarette and released it in a cloud. His hand drew the cue back. “Damn right I am.”

“There's like three solids in the way. I mean, you've gotten lucky so far, shrimp … ”

“Luck's got nothin' to do with it. You just can't see the path.” Spike drove the tip low into the cue ball hopping it over the bunch and into the rail. On the rebound the cue ball shot across the table connecting with the right side of the eight ball transferring the motion. The end ball slipped smoothly into the corner pocket leaving Spike to lean on his cue and grin up at the man twice his height. “Perspective is everything, now ante up, dipshit.”

With a grunt, the man handed over the cash. “That's it, you little shit. Don't think I won't beat your ass at this game.”

Spike snorted. “If you knew how many morons told me that. And yah know what? They're all still trying. So get in line!” It was like a three-card monte, the more they lost the more they wanted to try to win.

The man grabbed his jacket and stomped out into the growing storm. Spike glanced at the clock. _Closing time. _He locked the door and sighed. _Shit. Gonna be a rough night. _His stomach rumbled. _Yeah, yeah, I hear yah. Although I'd rather stay dry tonight, guess you got other bright ideas. _

Padding behind the counter Spike hit the catch on the hidden door in the wall to deposit the day's loot from the table, both from honest bets and picking pockets. Another day of the house's unbroken winning streak. Many fueled by the egos of previous losers, what a bruise to be beaten by a kid. Spike relished the con. It'd been a long time since he'd needed to shim the table. It was easy enough to pull out the trick shots he'd spent countless hours practicing when no one was watching. Shocking a grown man into wailing like a baby never got old.

His stomach grumbled again. That however, did get old.

The weight of the cash in his hand made him pause. He eyed the wall, Joe on the other side in the office where he spent much of his days. He wouldn't miss a little, would he? The take had been decent today. And Spike reasoned, not for the first time, that he needed his wits sharp enough to keep this up. He couldn't do that distracted by hunger. It wasn't a ploy he tried often. But the last week scrounging hadn't turned up much. Something hot and fresh was a rare treat.

Not the wad, he didn't dare nip into that. However, coins were rare. They wouldn't barter for much, but it would be better than empty handed. Spike tossed the bulk of the loot into the box. The office door opened. In a deft move, Spike pocketed the coins as Joe wandered out discarding an empty bottle into the trash. He eyed Spike as he was shutting the door.

“Leave it open, runt.”

Spike stepped back and leaned against the counter. “Come on, plenty of saps today. You don't have to check it.”

Joe reached in and started to rifle through it, counting every woolong and tossing a few valuable pieces of jewelry aside. “Heh, so a trip to the pawn shop is in order tomorrow.”

“I can do it if you want.”

“Screw that.” He eyed Spike. “Not after that little stunt you pulled. I told you not to get caught.”

Spike glowered. “I didn't think there was a camera back there.”

Joe cuffed him. “You didn't think! I told you what to do. So how come I had to spring you from the lock-up, you worthless idiot. Can't keep your hands out of trouble.”

With a sigh, Spike turned away and headed for the door. “They bought the story, so I don't know why you're still on my ass about it.”

“Hey! You save that mouth of yours for goading the customers!” Joe stomped around the counter.

“Yeah, whatever.” A few steps to the door.

“Get back here, you ungrateful runt!” Joe's meaty hand seized Spike's collar, not just the vest he wore, but the shirt. He knew that trick. The grasp brought Spike to a sudden halt.

_Clink!_

Spike's heart nearly stopped.

Joe's icy voice broke the silence. “You little shit! You holding out on me?”

A second later, Joe seized his wrist. As Spike's feet left the ground, he flailed. “No! It was nothing! Just my lighter!”

“Nothing? Didn't sound like nothing!” The other hand rammed into Spike's jean pocket and pulled out the handful of coins. He held it up and snarled. “This doesn't look like nothing you greedy little shit! What else do you have in there?” He searched every pocket, removing Spike's cigarette pack, his lighter, and even the small pocket knife.

That last item sent Spike into a panic. “Joe, don't take that! I need that! You can't—”

A hard slap across the face dashed any further pleas into silence. “You know the price of stealing from me!” He wrenched the door open and threw Spike out into the cold rain, locking the door behind him. “I don't want to see you until dawn! You try and pick the lock, I'll break your fingers.”

On his knees, already soaked in the downpour, Spike stared up at the pool hall's door. A barrier against the streets, inside that office a couch with his blanket, waiting … where he would not sleep tonight.

_Growl!_ Spike's hand rubbed his belly. “Hope you're happy. Shit, now I have to do this the hard way. Defenseless without a fuckin' knife.”

Climbing to his feet, Spike sighed as the old canvas sneakers he'd scavenged soaked up the puddle, leaving each step to squelch. This was not a good night to have to find shelter. Hands in his empty pockets, he cursed his idiot plan. If he hadn't gotten caught trying to be honest for once and actually buy something for once instead of stealing for his survival, all he'd have had to do was nip out find something to eat and come back to a dry, warm couch. Now that door wouldn't open until after sunrise … the start of another day's hustle.

Someone at the weather center had either pushed the wrong button, or the damn machine had busted again. It had been raining for the past few days. Spike wasn't a fan of trying to scavenge in the rain, all the more reason he had gone without, surviving off beer from Joe's tap. One of the few things that tightwad permitted.

So what would tonight be? With all the recent rain, dumpster diving would be at risk of drowning. Of course there were always trash cans, with the chance of something half eaten and not spoiled. However anything that had been thrown out tended to have  _extra flavors_ . A swift stone chucked against the head of a pigeon always made for a decent fresh meal. But that was out. Without his lighter and anywhere dry to cook it that would mean eating it raw. A risk he wouldn't take after he'd watched another kid puke her guts out after trying that. He hadn't seen her around since, a bad feeling. 

Why did Joe have to be such a dick? Didn't he know that cheap plastic lighter was for more than lighting cigarettes, and the pocketknife had been hard to come by. His stomach tormented him in painful knots. “Seriously don't want to hear your belly aching until I find something.”

Passing an alley he paused, and took a few steps back. A refrigerated shipping truck sat parked behind a grocery store. No one around. A slow smile spread on Spike's face. The only thing between him and the truck was a simple chain link fence. That was no trouble. At the base of the fence, Spike picked up a piece of wire that had rusted off, one of the fence binders. He pocketed it and vaulted up onto a trash can. It was a short jump up to catch an overhanging lamp and use the momentum to swing over. Catching the back of the fence, Spike hung there for a moment before dropping down in the alley and sneaking around the back side of the truck.

In the poor light he knelt down and worked the wire into the padlock. An older model, all he had to do was fish around inside until he received his reward, the lock popped open. He threw the latch and opened the door to …

Empty.

Spike sat on the bumper with a scowl. The story of his life lately, going the extra mile for nothing. Rain dripped down from above him.  _Course it's empty. Would have been too easy._

Hopping off the back of the truck, Spike left it open and threw the lock with all his might into the hold. Metal against metal clanged. His frustration hardly sated, Spike drew his foot back and kicked a can against the wall. It clattered down the alley. He was about to kick it again when the movement of a shadow at the end of the alley caught his attention.

The sound of snuffling, claws striking the pavement drilled into him. He froze. Around the corner, about fifty feet away, the scraggly head of a mange-riddled dog appeared. Its nose flaring.

Spike took a step back realizing the dog blocked his way. The only other way out was back over the fence. Had it seen him yet? He shifted ever so slightly back.

The dog wandered forward, fully blocking the alley. It's eyes roved until they locked on Spike. The dog's scarred muzzle wrinkled into a snarl.

Spike edged backward, moving slow. “Why did it have to be a damn dog? I hate dogs.” His heart already raced in anticipation even as he tried to keep his voice level. “Hey there, boy. Don't worry about me. Heck, we're probably up to the same shit, right? You as hungry as I am?”

The large mongrel's nostrils puffed with each breath. He stiffened and lowered his head, stalking forward into one of the few working lights.

“Which one are you … ” Spike held a hand out, as if it might somehow stop the advance, even as he gave ground trying to recall how far back the fence was as he entered the narrow gap between the wall and the truck. The dog's hackles rose as he released a fresh growl. “Hold on, you're not the … ” light fell across a sizable scar down the dog's shoulder, “ … the one I slashed. Oh shit. And you clearly remember me.” He nervously laughed, his hands flexed as he wished he had the knife. “Hell, that healed up nice. Gives you a bit of street cred. No hard feelings, right? I mean, I wouldn't've done it if you hadn't been trying to eat me. So how about we just part ways.”

The mongrel lunged.

“Son of a bitch!” Spike spun and grabbed a wooden pallet, flinging it behind him into the path of the predator as he scrambled toward the fence. The dog's ferocious barking, and the memory of the last time he'd nearly bled at this one's teeth, lent him speed. But it was only borrowed, and Spike knew it, he'd gone too long without a decent meal. Getting close enough to stab one of the brutes was not a good place to be. Staying ahead of them couldn't be done in a flat out run. Dashing up the crate stack, Spike's fingers caught a spot in the brick face without mortar. He used it to swing his feet up to land on top of the fence.

“Screw you!” He flipped the dog off and leapt for the same lamp he'd used the first time. Landing in a crouch, he glanced back over his shoulder.

Confidence rapidly faded as the dog jumped onto the crate stack and used the momentum to fling himself to the top of the fence. His open muzzle lunged over, hind legs kicking against the chain link. It dawned on Spike this wasn't over.

“Shit!” He spun and scrambled, the worn soles of the shoes skidding on the slick pavement. He didn't dare look back as the heavy animal splashed down in the alley and abandoned his growls. The harsh pant of the chasing mongrel told Spike he hadn't shaken his tail. And if anything, he was loosing ground.

“Faster! Must go faster!” Spike gasped and pumped his legs harder as if his life depended on it, because it did. A stitch stung his side. “Not now!”

Skidding around the corner, Spike had to grab a wrought iron railing to keep his intended course. He swung around and up onto a ledge hoping that the dog wouldn't follow.

Of course the dog didn't get the message. As large as the mixed breed was, he leapt up onto the ledge and nimbly ran along it, only loosing a touch of speed.

Spike scowled as this trick didn't work. At the end of the ledge he took a leap and kicked off the wall, doubling back underneath.

The trouble was, four paws did that better than two legs. Spike's lead narrowed.

“What did I ever do to you … besides stabbing you for trying to eat me?” Dashing into an alley, Spike kicked a couple of trash cans in the way, using them to vault up and catch the top of a wood slat fence. One hand caught, the other slipped on the rain slicked wood. “Shit!” He kicked, the worn shoes failing to gain traction as he tried to scramble up and over.

Suddenly a weight clamped onto his right leg and yanked him down. Spike yelped and barely maintained his hold. His left foot scraped against the boards. The right could do nothing, he couldn't lift it. Staring down, he couldn't suppress the scream. The mongrel hung by its jaws, teeth buried into the muscle of his calf. All he felt was the pressure, thanks to the blessed balm of adrenaline.

Too heavy! His arms trembled, unable to take the pendulum weight of the dog thrashing in the air. Desperately, Spike kicked with his left foot, bashing the dog in the face. The first time only earned him a growl that vibrated into his bones. Spike kicked again, aiming for the dog's eyes.

He was rewarded with a yelp, and a sudden surge forward as the weight of the dog dropped into the alley. Scrambling, Spike threw himself over the fence and tumbled down, loosing his hold on the other side. He landed hard on his left side, the air rushed out of him.

The boards of the fence shook and rattled. The mongrel surged against it, claws battering between the cracks.

Spike eyed the barrier and panted. Relief that this time the dog couldn't follow. “Screw you, pal.” Pushing up from the pavement Spike's wry laugh dashed into a yelp as he attempted to put weight on his right leg. It gave out. Startled, Spike glanced down. It was dark in the alley, but through the faint light cast through the slats he caught the ragged holes lining the back of the pant leg, a dark stain welled even as the steady rain competed to wash it away.

Spike's pulse thundered in his ears as he threw his head back and yelled, “Fuck!” Tugging up his pant leg he stared at the puncture wounds, at least four. Deep. Blood pooled and washed away in the rain. He didn't feel it—yet.

Reality struck him. This was going to hurt as soon as the adrenaline ebbed. Scavenging was over for tonight. If he didn't start back to the pool hall soon, he might not make it. Using the wall, he crawled up it and leaned for balance. Testing the limb he hoped it would take weight, at least enough to limp. It threatened to buckle, but he had no choice. If he stayed here that damn mongrel would eventually sort out how to reach him and finish him off. If not this one, others would catch the scent of blood and come. With great care, Spike hobbled along leaning on anything he could to keep him upright.

Nearly back to the pool hall, the pain lanced up his leg. Spike bit back an endless string of curses, head bowed in the rain. He could see the old rusted lamppost out front.

A dog barked.

Spike spun, put too much weight on his right leg, and crumpled to the ground. His eyes searched the darkness. At last a small cur dashed across the street with a bone gripped in its mouth. Spike shut his eyes and panted for a few breaths. “I. Hate. Dogs.”

Gingerly he used a nearby bench to climb back to his feet, or foot. The right refused to support anything anymore. At a snails pace, he crawled the rest of the way, collapsing in the pool hall's stoop. Rain ran off the awning dripping onto his shoulder. Spike sat with his head bowed over his cocked left knee and tried not to move. The rain concealed his silent tears.

Hours passed. The rasp of the lock in the door drew Spike from his stupor. He slowly turned toward the shadow in the door frame.

Joe scowled. “Well if isn't the miserable wretch. You learn your lesson?”

Spike shivered, unable to meet the stern gaze. There'd be no point in telling Joe what happened. He'd have better luck negotiating with the damn dog then getting a shred of sympathy from that tight wade.

Joe stepped out onto the stoop. “Get inside, dry your carcass off. Lock the door behind you. I'm off to the pawn shop. We'll open up when I get back.” His steps receded before Spike mustered the strength to try and stand.

He hissed the moment he engaged the injured calf. Lanced by the pain, he bit his tongue and grabbed onto the door, dragging himself up. A pool cue served to keep him from needing to crawl across the floor to his goal, behind the counter. Leaning against the shelves he rifled through the bottles until he found the vodka. Uncapping the bottle, he bared the injury and swallowed, his hand shook. Clenching his eyes tight he tipped the bottle.

The delay only made it worse. Throbbing pain surged to a fiery bone deep burn. Spike pounded the floor with his fist, but it failed to suppress the wail that tore from his throat. He lay back against the shelves gasping and trembling until the worst of it had subsided. Scrubbing the tears from his eyes, he capped the bottle and put it back. Wiping up the floor with a towel, faint pink … his blood diluted in a vodka wash. The rain had rinsed the blood from his jeans, leaving behind where the dog's teeth had punched through as the only evidence. And given how torn his jeans were, the evidence was easy to miss.

Leaning on the cue he limped back into the office and flopped down onto the couch. He had a few hours before Joe would return from the pawn broker, hopefully content with his score.

*

Spike stared down the cue. His vision blurred, the table seemed to shift. His left leg ached from holding his weight the whole day. He wobbled, the right instinctively catching him, but not able to. The stab of pain, and his attempt to catch his weight, shifted the cue.

As his hand caught the edge of the table, he heard the balls clack and his opponent cheered. Without a pause the man lined up a shot. Spike's heart dropped into the pit of his stomach as the eight ball fell into the pocket right before his eyes.

“Fuck yeah! I finally beat the little prick! Too bad no one was here to see it.” The man grabbed the ante from the table and sauntered out of the door leaving Spike clinging to the table edge.

Spike gripped the cue and limped over to the stools, flopping down on one of them he rested his head in the crook of his arm trying not to dwell on how empty his pockets were … and consequently the box in the wall. Every game a wash. Every. Single. One.

And he_ knew_ what that meant.

The office door opened. Joe ambled over to the hidden compartment and opened it. He stared.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Spike watched and braced himself. Why, he didn't know. There was nothing he could do. The man was twice his height, and easily five times his weight. Spike couldn't even stand on his own two feet.

Slowly, Joe turned, eyes seething. “What is this shit? You trying to pocket it again?”

Spike didn't even lift his head as he shook it. “No … nothing to pocket.”

The fist tightened. “So, you spiteful little shit, you think I'm gonna let you just throw games at cost? That's my house money on the rail!”

“I didn't try to lose.” Spike pushed up from the counter.

Joe reached over and grabbed his shirt, dragging him up. “Try or not, what do you **think** an empty box means for you, shithead?”

Spike grabbed his wrist, writhing in the grasp. Wide-eyed he blurted, “No! You can't, not tonight!”

Those words fell on a pavement heart as Joe stormed around the counter with Spike's threadbare shirt tangled in his fingers. “Fuck I can't. This is my place and you know the rules. You earn your keep or no roof!”

Spike clawed at his wrist, trying to break free as he was dragged across the floor. “You don't understand! I tried. I seriously tried.” That door edged closer, Spike pounded on his arm. “Please! I can't outrun the dogs tonight! They'll kill me!”

Joe lowered him, in the process, Spike's injured calf connected painfully with his step.

Spike howled and jerked the leg away.

With a lopsided scowl, Joe dropped him and yanked the pant leg up examining the punctures. He loomed over the prone boy, shuddering on the floor, tears in the corners of his eyes. “Hah, so the dogs got you. Got you pretty damn good. Wiped that damned cocky smirk off your face.”

Spike didn't dare to move. He just stared over his shoulder in frozen terror as Joe prodded his wounds.

“Thought you might be trying to pull one over. But these are real.” With a sigh, Joe stood up. “You're lucky the broker took a shine to that jewelry you filched yesterday. Fine, you can stay.”

He locked the front door and without another word disappeared into the office. Spike let a half hour pass before he limped across the floor to the bar and dared to pour a mug of beer, choking it down. It would be something to get him by. Not ideal, but leaving the relative safety of the hall would be suicide. Dogs smelled fear as good as blood.

Spike hobbled his way into the cramped office, peering around the door first. It was empty, the door left open at the back leading up to Joe's apartment. A place Spike had never dared to enter. A strange object caught his eye on the middle of the desk. Spike approached the glass vial filled with a purplish substance, a metal cylinder with a trigger lay next to it. Something from the pawn broker? Not that he would touch the damn thing. Joe was pissed enough. With a shrug, Spike dragged himself across the room and collapsed onto the couch, wrapping up in the blanket. Tomorrow just another fucking day.

*

Voices called from rather far away, saying his name repeatedly. “Spike, come on back kid.”

“Is he ok? What the heck happened? Is he sick?”

A hand on his forehead, warm. “Don't think so. No fever. If anything I'd say he's a bit cold.”

“Is it the lights or is he paler than normal?”

“Nope, not the lights. He's pale as a cue ball.”

Spike cracked his eyes open, the room spun. Two of the regulars bent over him, worry on their grizzled faces. Who were they? It came to him in a haze. The closest one, the one who'd just spoken that was Doug. The one standing up, Roy. They always came together. But why was Spike on the floor?

Doug pressed a hand to his shoulder, “Easy kid, you alright? One minute you were lining up a shot, the next you just passed clean out.”

Leaning up on an elbow Spike tried to nod, but it only made things worse. He ended up squinting.

“Ok, somethings wrong. And I should have known it the moment you missed an easy shot.”

_Missed? Shit, I must've been playing and what the hell is wrong with me … _ In a painful twist, Spike's gut voiced its opinion. Unable to resist, Spike doubled over practically writhing on the floor as his stomach growled.

Gripping his shoulder, Doug stared him in the eyes. “Spike, when's the last time you had anything to eat?”

Spike's gaze slipped away to the floor. Not something he wanted to admit. It'd been two full days since the damn dog. Two days of trying like hell to walk normal and failing with each grating step. The truth was it had been a good deal before that since he'd scored a meal.

“Hold on.” Doug got up and thumped across the room. He rifled through his bag and came back holding out half a large sandwich on a thick bun. “I got called off my lunch today thanks to an impromptu meeting with the chief. Was gonna finish it when I had time, but you need it a lot more than me, kid.”

It hovered there, like a tormenting illusion. Saliva poured into Spike's mouth. But he didn't reach for it, instead he stared out of the corner of his eyes. This never happened. And the one time it had, the cruel bastard holding it had lured him closer just to beat him up.

Doug remained steady, concern in his eyes. “It's ok, Spike. Take it.”

Cautiously, Spike reached out. The damn thing was real. Bread, meat, cheese, and a few other things he didn't even taste as he devoured it, barely chewing before he swallowed.

Roy shook his head. “Shoulda known that tightwad Joe would do this. I'm tellin' ya it was the first thing that entered my mind when the kid showed up years ago. It's always what he can get out people.”

Doug picked up his mug and finished the beer as he nodded to Roy. “You better now, Spike?”

Licking his fingers, Spike met his eyes and offered a solemn nod. “Don't tell Joe. He'll be pissed if he finds out … ”

Ruffling his hair, Doug smiled. “Like you took a dive on purpose. No kid, you really went limp there. Scared us both.” He narrowed his eyes at Spike and held out the empty mug. “Could use a refill, if you don't mind.”

Spike shifted awkwardly to his feet and took the mug. The moment he took his first step he heard Doug's inhaled breath followed by, “Shit. Roy, you seeing what I am?”

“Is he limping?”

Spike's head lowered. He'd forgotten to try to hide it. Not that it mattered, it hurt too much from trying throughout the day.

“You think Joe did it?”

By the time Spike limped back with the refill both men had lost all sense of humor in their eyes. Doug placed a hand on Spike's shoulder. “Hey, you look tired, kid. Why don't you lie down, take a nap.”

Spike took a shambling step back, his gaze shifted to the table with the half finished game. “But Joe's gone, I'm supposed to watch the place … and the game … what about the game?”

Doug smiled. “You won. And don't worry, we'll wake you up before Joe sees you sleeping on the job. Go on. I'm serious. You look beat.” He pushed Spike over toward a couple of chairs.

Spike laid down, his eyelids creeping closed. But sleep didn't come right away. Their hushed voices penetrated the growing haze.

Roy heaved a sigh, “You know you're some detective. Shoulda known something was wrong when he wasn't his mouthy self.”

The gravelly voice of Doug rumbled, close by, “You saying a beat cop is a better read? I knew something was up, just couldn't put a finger on it. And I'll tell yah, don't think Joe did it. Look.”

“Fuck, one of the damn dogs. That ain't good. You know what that means. The kid's losing his edge.”

“Hate to admit it, but he's about to became another statistic. Shame too. I liked him.”

“Don't look at him like that, Doug. You know as well as I do how many of these kids end up shredded on the street every day whether it's from getting caught in the crossfire, hit by a car, taken by the elements, or eaten by the feral mutts. There ain't shit we can do. There's too many of them out there, we can't even save a fraction if we tried. I mean, it was a nice gesture, but you're only prolonging the inevitable.”

“I know … maybe if I … ”

“Two things. One, didn't you just tell me your landlord's kicking you out? And two, you think Joe is gonna let anyone take his _sure bet_ away?”

“Look at our table and tell me that's a sure bet.”

A loud sigh. “The kid's fate really is sealed. He's had a good run. Few of them live this long.”

Their words formed a pit in Spike's chest, confirming what he'd already suspected. The odds of the game had violently shifted, and this time he didn't know what to do to shift them back.

Hours later, Doug's hand rocked Spike's shoulder. He jolted awake. “Come on, kid. Time to get up.” They stood at the edge of the table and the moment Joe opened the door Doug tossed his cue down on the oddly set table. “Damn, you did it again. Well … that clears me out til next payday.” He pushed the wad of woolongs into Spike's hand and whispered, “Hang in there, kid.”

*

In the evening air a pigeon swooped down and landed on the edge of the rooftop. Much of the abandoned building crumbled away, old soot marks lined the bricks of the single story. Clearly the pigeon didn't notice as it bobbed its head, strutting along to peck at an object. The moment it darted down, the speck moved. It flapped its wings, bobbing forward in the slow chase.

Behind the rusted out air conditioning unit, Spike held his breath. In one hand he held his lighter, shining it through a glass bottle and shifting the resulting dot of light. In his right hand he held a small chunk of brick from the structure. Slowly, the bird bobbed and weaved its way closer. Until …

THUCK!

Spike whipped the projectile hard. The chunk struck the pigeon upside the head resulting in a small poof of feathers as it fell on its side. Spike thrust his fist in the air. “Bullseye!” Grabbing the 2x4 he'd make-shifted into a crutch a few days back when he'd abandoned his pride for the sake of mobility, he levered himself up and hobbled over to the bird giving the neck a swift crunching turn. “Sorry bout that, but you know, your kind really is tasty.”

A short distance away, Spike eased himself down, leaning the crutch against the edge of the roof. He took out his pocketknife and started to scrape off the feathers, collecting them in the metal trash can lid he'd pulled up there earlier. The feathers joined a pile of dry wood, more sat next to him, waiting to be used. Once the bird was stripped of its plumage, Spike shoved a metal rod through the bird and propped it over the lid. Lighting the feathers, he watched as the fluffy kindling caught and blazed into the wood. Soon enough, flames licked under the bird's body.

He chuckled to himself, “Spike Spiegel, pigeon hunter.”

Lying back, Spike elevated his throbbing leg on the crutch and idly turned the cooking pigeon so one side didn't burn. Using a crutch had helped, as much as he loathed how visible it made his condition. Attempting to hide that only resulted in more pain each time he took a jerking step to try and catch his unsteady weight. The crutch made walking smoother, each effort more stable, and left him less exhausted for his endeavors. The damn leg hurt as it was, there was no point in making it worse and extending the healing time, already lengthy enough. Spike knew the punctures would heal slow, and cripple him for some time. There was no avoiding that now. Besides, he could also use the wood to bash anything that threatened him. Dogs barked as they chased one another down the street. Spike smiled and didn't even bother getting up to look, confident they couldn't scramble up here to harass him. This meal was all his. After repeatedly adding enough bits of wood to the lid, the scent of fresh cooked meat filled the air.

Another benefit of the small birds, they didn't take long to roast. Confident it was cooked enough, Spike pulled the small carcass from the flames and chowed down. Sucking on the bones until every shred of greasy meat was gone. At least if it wasn't raining that trick still worked. The dumb birds seemed to never learn regardless of how many of their flock fell to the slung stones. Not like the crows! That never worked on the crows.

Lying on his back, Spike lit a cigarette and resettled with his leg propped up, staring at the stars. Bout damn time the sky cleared up. Wasn't so bad when it was dry out. Tiny dots twinkled in the darkness in a sight that was almost beautiful. He heaved a sigh, content to have eaten something not from a trash can … well, as long as cooking it in the lid didn't count. It didn't count to Spike. That had been fresh meat. Nothing beat the taste of fresh meat!

The squeal of car tires cut through the quiet night, it ended in a deep thud and a pained yelp, cut short.

Spike shot upright and came to the roof edge. Caught in the flickering streetlamp, a truck accelerated away from a body rimmed in a bloody splatter. The shadow cast outline drew Spike forward, leaning over the crumbling brick. A sizable dog lay in the middle of the road, his neck at an odd angle. In the mangy parted fur of the shoulder Spike noted the scar.

His hand strayed down to grip his right shin. “That'll be the last time you chased me, you son of a bitch.”

Out of the shadows they came. In pairs and trios, dogs of all sizes ran towards the fallen mongrel and descended on the carcass. Ripping and tearing, their growls echoed in the alley. Spike watched as a larger dog grabbed onto the neck and tried to make off with the whole damn thing. Instantly a tug of war ensued in a cannibalistic fight. Spike couldn't blame them. After all fresh meat was rare regardless of the source. The number of dogs roaming the city exceeded what he could keep track of. This wasn't the first time he'd witnessed an animal eating its own kind. It was, however, the first time he relished the destruction of a corpse. 

“Serve's your mangy ass right!”

A gunshot interrupted the melee. In an instant the dogs abandoned the feast and dispersed into the alleys. From his vantage point, Spike ducked down and peered over the edge as a man ran for shelter into the ruined building below. On his tail, several men in long dark coats with a tasseled cord across each breast. Guns glinted in the streetlamp before they followed their prey.

As silently as he could, Spike crawled across the rooftop and peered into a hole. Down below, the cornered man stood with his back to the wall. “I didn't mean to! Please, if I had known it was Red Dragon stuff … the rat bastard didn't tell me anything! I didn't know! I know better than to cross you guys!”

One of the men in the tasseled coat took it off and handed it over to a companion. In his hands he held a container Spike recognized, just like the one on Joe's desk. The man laughed, a chilling sound as he stepped closer. “I think a smart ass like you needs a little demo of the merchandise. I mean, you wanted to deal, right?”

The man holding his jacket, pumped a fist in the air. “Show him, Wallace. Show him the power of the Red Dragons!”

Their victim fell onto his knees, sobbing. “God no! Don't! I swear I'll never touch your racket again!”

“Too late.” Wallace held the canister in front of one eye and depressed the trigger, then a squirt into the other. His body stiffened, a sadistic smile twisted his face. The laughter that left him, inhuman as his eyes shot wide. “Go ahead, take your best shot, Neil!”

With a trembling hand, Neil pulled out a gun. “Let me go … I beg of you, just let me go!”

“Pull the trigger. Go on. I dare you!”

Neil swallowed, his finger shifted. The moment it did, Wallace whipped out his arm and batted the gun out of the way. It fired, the bullet slammed into the wall. With his other hand, Wallace gripped the gun and ripped it from Neil's hands. Faster than should have possible, Wallace anticipated Neil's pitiful strikes. He made it a game, practically punting the man repeatedly into the wall until his face resembled ground beef.

From his vantage point, Spike's pulse hammered. The crazed motions of Wallace driven on by the drug like nothing he'd ever seen before. Sure, he'd walked in on Joe partaking in some powdered shit more than once. But that left Joe a jittering mess, usually passed out on his desk for the remainder of the day. Whatever this shit was cranked up the reaction time. That much was obvious. Spike swallowed, what was Joe doing with it? What would Joe do  _on it_ ? 

Spike's imagination ran wild with the thought of that lumbering mountain of flesh able to move even faster. Possibly hit even harder. He cringed.

That thought occurred to him just as the crack of a skull splitting rent the air. Neil's limp body slid down the wall leaving a smear behind.

“Not enough!” Wallace howled and ran out of the building.

The two remaining Red Dragons leaned against the wall. “Great. This'll be fun to explain to the boss when we get back to Tharsis.”

“Hey, it's a done deal. We tagged the targets. Who cares that Wallace went on a bender here? Shit, in this crater it's not like a few more holes in the wall make a difference.”

“Right.”

“We still get paid for the job.”

_Job? _ Spike glanced at the battered man.  _What kind of a job are they talking about?_

“We made the point. Ain't no one mess with the Red Dragon's trade and lives to tell about it. Fuck, might even get a bonus if Wallace does enough damage.”

“Think we should go get him?”

“Haha! You gonna try and stop him cranked up on that shit? Cause I'm not. I rather like breathing. Besides, it'll wear off soon enough. Then we can head back home and collect.”

Spike watched as the men left, taking a bloody souvenir with them. He waited long enough to be certain he was alone before hobbling down the crumbling ruins on his make-shift crutch back toward the pool hall. Who were these Red Dragons?

*

Thunder pealed. Spike sat up in bed panting. The sheets soaked in cold sweat. He gripped the blanket tighter as his pulse refused to settle. His hand strayed to the roughly healed flesh of his calf. The scar had stretched over the near month he'd been here. Layers of muscle beneath more toned than it had ever been. It hadn't been his imagination, he had grown, evidenced by the way his old clothing fit now. Another image sprang into his mind … the Red Dragons … he shut his eyes and glimpsed a vague impression of himself, grown up, one of the men in that building. His fist primed to beat down a man on his knees before him.

A heady image tangled with fear and power, settled into purpose. There was a reason he was here. A reason Sensei trained him. He turned his hand in front of his eyes. The callouses of his old life still visible on the muscles building in this new one.

An opportunity, a path, … he took a deep breath and closed his eyes against the dread of mistake. The memories confirmed it. He would likely be dead if he'd remained in that crater. Even now.

Sensei's voice penetrated his spiraling thoughts. _Quell the panic. Still the surface. Like water—only when it is still can one see what lies beneath._ Don't let it swallow him whole. He lay back down, rested his hands on his chest and concentrated … meditated. His heartbeat settled even as the storm continued to batter the world outside. Spike willed himself numb in the darkness, to embrace this chance to survive.


	7. Session 7

_ **Session 7** _

Spike stood beside his sensei as they gazed into their reflections in the mirror. The boy that stared back at him now was nothing like what he had come here as several months ago. It had been weeks since he had seen Annie, she was gone without a trace—not that he was going to ask Yenrai about why. But her absence hadn't kept him from picking the lock and swimming almost daily. If that didn't fill his afternoon, he would range around the walled in property exploring the wooded acreage, returning in time to eavesdrop on the advanced lessons. He was still thinly built, but instead of the half-starved street wretch he'd left Deseado as, he had a lean coat of muscle over his bones. Bones that had grown enough that he'd been given a larger pair of jeans, along with a shirt and vest too. The shoes were similar canvas style sneakers with better traction than his old ones. Nothing was new, but his clothing was at least not fraying at the seams. At the moment dressed in his gi, when he shifted through the balance postures there was hardly a delay as he found the center and kept it in check. Motions were smooth, certain, confident. His strikes had enough power behind them to move Sensei's hand back with enough accuracy he could target the palm with his fist most of the time.

Closing the routine, Sensei circled Spike eyeing him appraisingly. “When you first came here you were raw, ragged, practically starved. You heard me tell Mao that I thought it a miracle you had survived. Now, what is the mantra I taught you?”

After so many repetitions Spike swore he could even state it in his sleep. “Frailty is only a physical state that can be overcome by persistence.”

“What do you see?”

Not even rocking on his feet, Spike stood firm. Another lesson entered his thoughts, show his teacher he'd been listening. “A still surface on a river betrays nothing of what it hides beneath.”

Sensei's eyebrow lifted before he smiled. “May I not regret this.” He rested a hand on Spike's shoulder. “It's time you joined the others.”

Spike broke his gaze from the mirror and looked up into his sensei's face. He fought to keep his heart rate from racing away. “Sensei, can I choose my first opponent?”

He cocked his head. “You hardly know them … ” his voice faded for a moment in thought before he brought his hand to his forehead. “Oh yes, that's how. Spike, I don't think that's wise. I was going to just have you watch the sparring matches today.”

But Spike kept his eyes locked, palms pressed together as he quoted from memory, “_If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles._”

Sensei balked for a moment. In truth, he shouldn't have, Spike had already been drilled on half a dozen passages in the Art of War text, the copy given to him had a permanent home on the table next to his bed. “But Spike, you don't know your enemy. That boy may be the same age as you, but you've hardly seen him since that night.”

Spike snapped down into a snake pose Sensei had not taught him yet. The posture Spike had seen Vicious do nearly every day he'd spied on them from the shadows of the hallway.

“What the … ?” Sensei's eyes roved for a moment before he looked to the ceiling with a groan. “Dammit! You little eavesdropper, that's what Mao meant!”

“I've seen enough, Sensei.” Spike caught his hand straying up to where the mark used to be from his first encounter with Vicious. “You're worried about me with the others. I know, I'm smaller than most of them. But they look up to him.”

“There's a reason for that. Most fear him because he's unbeaten. Spike, you're fast and agile. Your size makes you harder to hit. But don't underestimate him, he never holds back. There are others who are safer.”

“But that won't leave an impression.” Spike glared. “I'm not afraid of him. I owe him back for what he did.”

Sensei exhaled slowly, crossing his arms.

“I'm ready. I've watched him spar.”

“You can't defeat him.”

Spike smirked. “A guy like that I don't have to. I just have to match him. That I can do. His ego'll do the rest.”

“Your confidence is going to get you killed.”

He shrugged. “Probably. But I'm still alive, aren't I?”

*

Sensei Leonard brought his hands together closing the warm up routine. The boys faced him, spread out across the dojo floor in orderly lines. He tried to keep his eyes from flicking to the figure in the back of the room. As instructed, Spike sat waiting on a stack of mats, one leg drawn up the other hanging down. Perfectly relaxed. Concealed in shadows Leonard doubted the boy's presence had even been noted by the others. Leonard caught Vicious's preoccupied glare, once more those eyes demanded his attention. The more he looked at the boy the more he saw a snake in him. Cold-blooded and reserved, always ready to strike. His heart grew heavy, he had delayed this long enough.

_No regrets._ He took a deep breath and waved the boys to the sides. “Clear the center.”

The boys all knelt around the lines. Always Vicious flanked by Gable and Kieran. The handful of older students, knelt across from Vicious averting their eyes to his challenging stare. Anders in particular, as he tried to conceal rubbing his chest from the bruise beneath his gi. Being larger than Vicious did not pay off for their match the previous day. He had ended up doubled over, barely able to draw a breath in. 

Leonard pointed toward the back line. “Make room.” The boys glanced to one another. However Vicious, Gable and Kieran all grinned, practically wringing their hands. Leonard cleared his throat and offered the trio a scowl. “Today another student joins you all in training.” He gestured to the back of the room. 

The sound of Spike's bare feet hitting the mat turned heads. He strode forward, slouched shoulders and lazy-eyed, kneeling into the space cleared for him. This close to the others it was more obvious, he was shorter than Vicious by a few inches, and still catching up on weight. Eyes widened on the new-comer. But Spike remained motionless. His half-lidded gaze on Leonard as if to remind him of their words not even an hour ago. Whispers disrupted what should have been silence. One of those whispering voices was Vicious.

“This is Spike. He will be joining you in the dorm after class. I will remind you all,” he eyed Vicious and company, “that fighting, even sparring level, is prohibited outside of this room. Am I understood?”

In unison they all responded, “Yes Sensei.”

He shifted his eyes to lock with Spike. Calm brown eyes beneath half closed lids remained steady. Slowly Leonard glanced to Vicious, as if to ask,  _Are you certain? _ The reply was a covert glance in Vicious's direction. No apprehension. Leonard shut his own eyes and steeled himself.  _So be it._

“Vicious, to the line.”

With a determined stride, Vicious stepped into the square. A cold, emotionless gaze in his eyes as he searched the group hungry for an opponent.

Leonard pointed, “Spike, take the line.”

All the other boys stiffened. Anders jerked backward, “Sensei, what—”

Leonard held up a hand silencing him. “Spike, I explained the rules of a sparring match. Points for pushing an opponent out of the ring, pinning to the mat, or a strike to the torso. This part goes especially for you, Vicious, when I say stop, you **both** stop.”

Vicious didn't reply, instead a slow smile broke out as he sunk into a starting pose.

In complete opposition, Spike remained slouched, loose. His hands at his sides as if in pockets. His eyes still half-lidded, barely catching the overhead light. Unreadable.

Gable laughed. “Yenrai's street cur is gonna get his ass kicked on his first day!”

Spike didn't let his gaze leave Vicious, but his deadpan reply cut through the following silence, it seemed almost relaxed. “I am not a street cur. Never refer to me as a dog again.”

The smile on Vicious's lips twisted, a vile sparkle in his violet eyes. “Why not? A mangy runt like you?”

It was subtle, Spike stiffened only for a split second before banishing it. He waited.

“Enough.” Leonard crossed his arms. “Are you two ready?” When both offered him a nod, he whispered a silent plea under his breath that this wouldn't end in a burial and called out, “Fight!”

Vicious blinked through strands of silver hair when Spike didn't immediately charge him. The boy didn't move, he just stood there eyeing him. Every other student in this room who had faced him dove in first chance they got trying to beat his fist. Leonard studied the stand off, it appeared as though Spike hadn't heard the decree. And Vicious momentarily stood with confusion knitting his brows.

“What's the matter?” Vicious snapped, “You scared cause of what I did to you last time?”

Spike remained stock-still.

“Fine!” In a swift drive, Vicious surged forward in the snake pose, leading with a fist to feint low and strike high.

Spike slipped off to the side, bringing his arm up and deflecting the blow.

The moment Vicious leaned into a blank space, an arm batting his out of the way, the cocky smile vanished from his face. The shock didn't last long. Instead it was replace by disgust. He came around and swung hard with his other fist.

Spike's loose body shifted balance, easily sliding out of the way. At the moment Spike's strategy stuck with pure evasion. Vicious's typical temper drew him into an opponent's space in a brutal assault, Spike seized control of that tactic and turned it on his opponent. The strikes came hard and fast from Vicious's rigid fury only to be redirected by Spike's fluidity. Where the other boys would quickly dissolve into a panic, Spike remained calm and focused, his form efficiently denying Vicious his victory strike.

It beggared belief, and if Leonard didn't know the history of the two boys he would have sworn they'd matched before, not for the first time. Vicious, his hot-tempered pupil of four years. Spike, a boy who had beaten the savage odds of a crater slum. Of course Leonard had sparred with Spike, but this concealed intensity hadn't been there. He flowed like water, embracing the element Leonard had glimpsed at his core. It rendered him a serious pain in the ass to read. Made more obvious by this being the first time Leonard had seen Vicious lose his cool.

Lured to edge of the square, Vicious's anger nearly drove him over the line. He saved his balance with a pinwheel of his arm.

Spike took that opening for a palm strike toward the chest. The evasion left Vicious staggering sideways in a graceless move. Spike flashed a grin. “Not such an easy target when I'm awake.”

Vicious growled, “Go down like the beaten dog you are!” He lunged forward.

Spike jumped, and used Vicious's back as a platform, vaulting behind him. Vicious kicked backward sending Spike into a tumble narrowly avoiding the hit. His foot landed perilously close to the line. Spike panted, “I am not a dog!”

The two collided, now in the midst of a grappling match, trying to force one another to the mat in a tangle of limbs. In the rare glimpses of their faces the heat was easy to see. Unable to pin him, Vicious changed tactics and attempted to throw Spike. The effort led to Spike somersaulting and landing crouched, just inside the boundary. He flicked his fingers, an invitation to charge.

Vicious wiped his forehead.

Matches usually didn't go on this long. A few exchanges and one typically got through. At this point reaching a match point could take all day. Leonard rubbed his chin remembering Spike's decree, _I just have to match him. That I can do. _How long had Spike been watching them secretly from the shadows, studying Vicious and plotting this moment to make his mark? He knew the tells that the other students became too frantic to catch. The other boys all stared wide-eyed at the match. Some with envy, most with shock. No one, except Leonard himself, had managed to stand a round against Vicious without getting bloodied.

No one now—except Spike.

For once someone held their ground against his most volatile student. He realized that he finally had a challenge for Vicious. Perhaps with something to focus on, the irksome boy might be easier to handle.

“Stop!” Leonard held up his hands as the two started to line up their next strikes. They both paused, staring through their fingers at one another. “Well done, both of you. Spike, that exceeded my expectations.”

He panted, wiping sweat from his brow. Only now did he let his gaze leave Vicious.

Vicious leered and pointed. “He didn't win. He didn't strike me. Nor did he push me out or pin me. He didn't win.”

Spike lifted a shoulder and let it fall. “Neither did you. So, I guess we're even.”

That stiffened Vicious. At the same time the rest of the boys exchanged shocked expressions. Kieran's voice cut the silence, “Spike is evenly matched with Vicious.”

Rounding on the boy, Vicious grabbed the collar of his gi and pulled him close, silencing him. “I am **not** matched by that street dog!”

Spike swept a kick, taking Vicious's legs out from beneath him and dumping him backward on the mat. Leaning over him, he growled, “And I told you, I am not a dog!”

Leonard held his breath as Spike turned and walked back to his place to kneel on the mat, offering Vicious a half lidded glare. Vicious got to his feet and took his place at the edge of the square, rubbing his elbow. A bit of blood blossoming on the white fabric. A slow smile grew as he stared at Spike.

_First blood. That was unexpected. Watch your back, Spike._

*

Rows of bunk beds lined the room. Evening light streamed through the windows. Spike had settled his few belongings on the shelf near his new bunk beneath the high window before he had even snuck into the class, as instructed. Now, dressed back in his jeans with his shirt and vest, he reclined in the wide windowsill gazing out at the view. One leg hung over the edge, swinging idly. His arm rested on his raised knee. The boys chatted and jostled around the room, casting glances his way. He noticed, but he didn't really care.

Spike's mind was preoccupied analyzing how his gamble had played out. That measured square on the mat had been similar to a pool table. Approach the side without giving the con away. Let the overconfidence fuel the opponent. Then, once they fall into the trap, never let them get their traction back. He'd known he couldn't get through Vicious's defense. Vicious was stronger and Spike didn't have the reach yet. But strength and reach weren't everything. Speed and agility should never be ignored. However—there was a far more powerful wound.

Not that Spike knew much about human bonds, after all Joe had been a shit-show of a role model there, what he had witnessed around the pool table was the crippling power of an ego-trip. No punch could possibly do more damage that a shot at reputation. The toughest schmuck in the pool hall could be reduced to a pitiful tantrum if his bluster failed to hold up.

The conversation around this room sounded similar, bringing back memories. He didn't miss the hunger or discomfort. But he found a particular itch difficult to scratch. The scent of cigarette smoke teased him as his fingers shifted against his knee, longing for something he hadn't had in months.

Anders leaned against the windowsill and ran a hand through his hair. In his other, a lit cigarette. “You sure are a ballsy little shit. Hey, your name's Spike, right? Mine's—”

Spike cut him off, “Anders.” When he blinked in surprise, Spike pointed to each of the boys, “Gable, Kieran, Vicious, Kade, Lance, … ”

“Well, that's a neat trick. How'd you know?”

Looking back out the window. “Three of you I met shortly after arriving here.” He eyed Vicious, dressed in a dark button shirt and slacks, lying on his bunk with a book in his hands. He wasn't reading. His eyes peered above the cover spying on Spike. That was until he noted he was being watched. He flicked a page hastily. Subtle. “The rest, well, I've been watching all of you.”

Ander's looked a bit older, a shadow of scruff on his jaw, he wore a red hooded sweatshirt with a smudge of something dark. It smelled of gunpowder. His voice had dropped into a lower register. As he spoke, his bright blue eyes narrowed. “Sensei let you watch without telling us?”

Spike shrugged. “Sensei couldn't stop what he didn't know I was doing. The man isn't a god, can't be everywhere at once.”

Lowering his voice, he whispered, “Damn, guess I shoulda known the kid who could stand a round against the resident brat wasn't the average recruit.”

The red ember this close stole Spike's attention. He couldn't help the pre-occupation.

Anders caught it and reached into his pocket, pulling out a fresh cigarette. “You're kinda young to have this vice. Where'd you come from?”

Spike swallowed as he took the offered balm to that deep itch. The moment Ander's lit it with a match, he inhaled deep and sighed before answering, “Deseado.”

Several heads turned at that. A crowd closed the distance standing in the shadow he cast. Spike leaned his head back, savoring the relief as he held the sweet tobacco in his lungs before letting it out in a puff. This was a good brand, whatever it was.

“You're shittin' me.” Anders flicked the ash onto the floor. “Nothing worth a damn crawls out of that pit. Hell, word has it that's where morons who have fucked up run to die in hopes that no one will follow their sorry asses there. No one wants to be sent there on a run. Least that's what I heard the ranks say.”

Spike eyed him sideways. “It's also where Yenrai and his buddies play pool after leveling a city block.”

Anders cocked his head, staring at the cigarette in Spike's mouth. “Let me guess, you were there.”

“I worked as a shark in the pool hall.” He flicked the ash on the floor alongside Ander's.

“You played them?”

Spike nodded slowly, drawing the boys in closer. “Specifically Yenrai. Not sure I'd call it an actual game, though. He only shot twice.”

Lance leaned forward, “Our master?”

Anders cuffed the boy playfully. “As if there's another Yenrai. Who else would have brought him here?”

Lance rubbed his head and shrugged. “Well, I haven't seen him in a while, not since he brought me here. Hey Anders, you think my dad is coming?”

The older boy hid a roll of his eyes before he tucked his hand in his pocket. “Seriously kid, can you give that rest? Ain't you figured it out yet? Nobody here's got folks coming for them. That's exactly why we're here. They either died, are in prison, or just plain don't give a fuck what happened to us.”

Spike closed his eyes, resting his head against the wide window frame. So many years had passed now since he had last seen their faces. He hardly remembered them, just vague shadows, bits of memories. There'd been no point clinging to any hope, that ember long extinguished in the gutters that tried to claim him. The meager hope in Lance's voice almost stung.

When he opened his eyes Vicious stood at his side with his arms crossed, a scowl fixed in Spike through the strands of silver hair. “Who do you think you are?”

Spike raised an eyebrow but didn't reply as the other boys, even Anders, took a step back. He realized that if Vicious chose to do anything at the moment he would be trapped.

Vicious inclined his nose, the higher timbre of his voice sounding almost funny as he threw an attitude more suited for a full grown man. “You think that trick you pulled in the dojo is going to work? You have no idea who you screwed with. That dojo is mine.”

Anders palmed his face. “Give it a rest, Vicious. Nobody cares.”

Plucking out the cigarette, Spike adopted a bemused expression and narrowed one eye. “Uhhh, I do think that Sensei and Yenrai might have something to say about that. I was under the impression this joint was theirs.”

Vicious reached up and grabbed Spike's shirt and yanked him closer. Spike let it happen, even as many of the others cringed. “You will learn your place, runt.”

That stung a bit. Spike couldn't help the flinch, but he kept his voice level, “I know my place. Toe to toe with you, hothead.”

“Tsk!” Vicious spat, the shock evident in his eyes.

Spike wondered when the last time was that someone had dared to even defy him. By the cringing of the others it seemed they lent credence to his self-belief that he ruled this place. Fanning the flames of an ego was dangerous, and Sensei's words confirmed that Vicious was a hard one to control. After all, what kind of a person named themselves _Vicious_? Well, so much for boredom.

Anders grabbed his hand and released the hold, staring Vicious down. “That's enough.”

His confidence deflated a moment later when Vicious took a mock strike at his chest, Anders curled into a guard, a flash of fear in his eyes. “You want me to remind you where you belong? Next time I'll break a rib.”

“What the hell is wrong with you? Haven't you injured enough of us already?”

“I am the best fighter here.”

“And yet you're still here.” Anders pointed. “Get a clue, Vicious, if that's what you insist on being called. I can't wait to get initiated so I can get away from you.”

Vicious cracked his knuckles. “Maybe you won't even make it out of here.”

He bared his teeth. “You mean like Haru and Davis? Don't think I don't know what you did. Sensei will find out one of these days, you demented little ass. Every time one of us is close to initiation something happens.”

He smiled, venom in his eyes. “I am ready to take my place.”

“You are twelve.” Anders snapped. “You're not even close to being old enough.”

“Knocking the others out increases my chances of being chosen.”

“Uh, no it doesn't. Trust me, I've done a run with a ranker.” Anders pointed out the window. “All it's doing is making things tougher out there. So you better knock it off before you get kicked out.”

Vicious's smile only intensified. “Unlike you, Yenrai will never kick me out.”

As Vicious turned and walked away, Anders growled just above his breath, “That kid pisses me off.”

Spike snubbed out the butt of the cigarette and eyed Vicious from a distance. “He's a lot of hot air.”

“My bruised ribs say different.”

“Say Anders, where'd you get the smokes from?”

He pulled the pack out of his hoodie pocket and pointed. “Yenrai has some in the mansion. It was my reward for running a task with one of his squads. You can earn stuff like this doing favors.”

The lock pick twirled in Spike's fingers as he glanced out the window. “The mansion, you say? Hrm.”


	8. Session 8

_ **Session 8** _

Early morning, long before dawn Spike ghosted past Anders's bunk, dropping a pack of cigarettes on the covers on his way by. Anders sat up and blinked, holding them up in the scant moonlight.

Spike pulled a few more packs out of bag he'd slung over his shoulder. He tucked them beneath his mattress and then shoved the bag deep under the bed frame, more objects rustled inside. Noting he was being watched, he glanced over his shoulder, placed a finger to his lips and grinned.

Anders scratched his head as if to say, _How the hell did you get this?_

The next object to appear in Spike's hand was the lock pick. He let it glint in the moonlight before his deft fingers made it vanish.

No door was locked to him.

*

Spike took a deep breath, all eyes were on him again. It felt, awkward. But he knew his task. Simple enough. Without any warning he darted across the mat, his palms shot out in front of him in a driving strike to Sensei's shoulder.

_No … through where Sensei was. Where did he go?… wait, is that his grip on my wrist? … Oh SHIT! _ Rather in a panic Spike found himself airborne trapped in a disorienting overhand throw. He kicked and twisted, throwing his weight around in a desperate scramble. Just in time he managed to land mostly on his feet, catching his balance with one hand. Sloppy, but better than a face plant.

That wrenching had been harder than yesterday when Vicious had done it. More forceful. Spike resisted the urge to rub his right shoulder. Still inside the boundary of the square, Spike studied Sensei through narrowed eyes.

Sensei stood relaxed and smiled. “You landed close to the line. You want to try again. I can see it in your eyes.”

He didn't say a word. Just rose to his feet and dusted himself off. Once more not giving much of warning Spike charged, this time not leading with his hands, he saved the strike for the last minute. Sensei didn't shift out of the way this time. Instead when Spike drove his hands forward, Sensei simply stood up straighter, moving the center of mass higher. The contact stopped Spike's momentum as harshly as a brick wall. Something Spike didn't have long to contemplate as a second later an elbow slammed into the center of his back between his shoulder blades. Forced to the ground, Spike's breath left him in a pained grunt, leaving him panting as Sensei stood above him.

“Too stiff, Spike. Remember to be fluid. Like water.”

_Fuck water! Where the hell did that truck come from? _ Cracking an eye open, Spike gritted his teeth as he pushed up off the floor. The expressions on the other boys' faces were cringe-worthy. So much for yesterday's invincible impression. He staggered to his feet and tried to stretch out his back. 

That hurt. A lot. 

Sensei shook his head. “We're done.”

“No.” Spike narrowed his eyes, trying to key it in. Fluid, unpredictable, adaptable. How could he gain the critical strike without Sensei being able to evade? This was a shot on the pool table. That was it. “It's a matter of angles.”

Sensei remained idly at the ready. “If you are certain you want to try again. Alright. Whenever you are ready.”

Tip him over. That's all he had to do. Knock Sensei's balance off enough he'd go over. There were plenty of trick shots Spike knew that involved leverage. How a force applied, direction and place of contact, was everything. So, all he had to do was nail him in a direction he wasn't expecting. Spike smiled and once more darted, this time with a jump, driving downward at an angle.

That was a mistake! Spike had just enough time to process that thought as Sensei flashed a grin up at him and leaned back. A second later, Sensei's leg came up against Spike's gut. Using Spike's right arm, again, Sensei guided him into a throw pushing up against Spike in a controlled layout kick. This time too much force for him to possibly compensate. There would be no overcoming inertia this time.

“Shit!” The force against Spike's gut resulted in the unflattering scream until he collided, ass over tea kettle, into the wall. An odd space on the wall strategically devoid of objects, but it did sport a large dent, rather resembling the shape of body impacts. Something Spike no longer pondered now that he had the experience of why. 

Day one, left impression on classmates. Day two, left impression on the wall.

“ … owwww … ” 

Spike lay on his shoulders, back up against the wall, feet dangling in the air. A groan escaped him as the room spun. A blurry Sensei wandered into his star-strewn vision, his voice calm and confident. “You guessed wrong. No one is born knowing how to do this. Now. Can you stand up?”

That would prove difficult. Spike barely shifted, the main result was a grimace and a hiss as he rediscovered where Sensei's elbow had previously driven between his shoulder blades. That had been jarred by the impact against the solid wall.

When Spike didn't respond with anything verbal, Sensei continued, “Can you at least tell what direction is up?”

With a sigh, Spike pointed.

“Close.” Sensei leaned down and tapped his finger over. “I do believe you are done sparring for the day.”

With a grumble, Spike flopped onto his side and dragged himself to his feet. “No. Again.” He took two steps before his equilibrium deserted him. Collapsing forward, he found himself draped over Sensei's waiting arms. “Dammit.”

“Nice try. Ambition cannot overcome everything. Patience is needed as well. You will learn nothing from being further thrashed today.”

His hands withdrew once Spike had found a semblance of balance. The final steps back to the edge of the mat were far from steady with the room still shifting beneath his feet. But at last he knelt down, back in his place arching his back and trying to relieve the deep ache.

Anders, at his side, leaned closer and whispered. “You alright?”

“I'll tell you when I stop seeing stars.” Spike couldn't even spare a glance for Vicious across the mat, though he was certain that boy was watching him, probably smiling. Damn it, why had Sensei done that? More than one joint hurt like hell now. But especially his upper back where he couldn't even reach. Oh, that had not been a mistake. It was a lesson. He was sure of it.

When at last he did look up, Vicious stood in the middle with Sensei. The exercise simple, a series of driving strikes meant to work on targeting. Vicious delivered away, but the moment he got off track, Sensei delivered a counter strike right into him. The brutal blows were no more held back for Vicious. The boy held his ground, only grunting when Sensei nailed him in the gut. Vicious staggered back for a second to catch his breath and then resumed the drill.

There was no doubt why the others looked up to him. The recent thrashing reminded Spike of how powerful Sensei truly was, a realization he had not been forced to face since they first met. Vicious held his ground against those blows. Of course, his challenge was different than the one Spike had been tasked with. But still, Spike had just had his ass handed to him. That stung a little. His pride, not his ass.

Once every student had their round getting their own personalized lesson, Sensei split them into pairs. He gestured to Spike and Anders, “Since you both are the most bruised, you two drill against one another.”

_One small mercy. _ Spike rubbed his shoulder.

Anders absently gripped his ribs as they stood up together. Spike heaved a sigh and tried to find a comfortable way to assume the proper drilling stance. Anything he did tugged on the bruise he knew he sported in the center of his back. Resigned that this was just gonna hurt, he settled and raised his hands. A sign he was ready for the back and forth blocking drills. Muscle memory building. Spike knew enough of that from the pool hall. Of course there is a distinct difference in hitting a ball verses hitting flesh.

Still, the repetitious exercise afforded them a chance to chat as they traded the motions. “Does he do that to everyone?”

Anders glanced up at the question. “You could say that. Part of everyone's second day in the class. It's kind of a right of passage. Makes you one of us now.”

Spike grunted against his will as he delivered a strike into Ander's waiting palm.

“How did you guess?” Ander's cocked an eyebrow.

“Well, the dented wall was a pretty big clue. That and for some strange reason no one was in the way when he threw me that direction. So, it seemed like they knew he was gonna do it and moved to avoid it.”

He chuckled. “You can call it Sensei's target practice. We all ended up there at least once. Even that little prick, Vicious.”

“Bet that was fun to watch.”

Anders smiled, “Hell yes. He pretty much lost his shit and tried to claw the Sensei. Course, Sensei just launched his ass back into the wall. That time he busted an ankle. Tried to get up, but couldn't. Haha! Can't train on crutches. He couldn't take another shot at it til he healed. Honestly, you fared better than he did.”

“That so?” Spike shook his head. “Sensei's made a challenge for me. I aim to knock him down.”

“Good luck. Takes a while to figure it out. We don't have the weight for it. So it's harder, but not impossible. It's all about physics.”

Spike straightened up for a second. “Physics?”

“Yeah, you know; force, momentum, inertia.”

“Oh, pool.” Spike huffed a breath as he threw a blow. Yup, he had been right. Just needed to discover the right angle to sent Sensei onto his ass.

They continued to trade the blows back and forth into eachother's hands. Crossing over some of the time, direct strikes in others.

Anders broke off the routine, rubbing his side. Spike ran a hand through his sweaty hair, eyes to the ceiling he caught something. The gleam of two bells hanging down on bright braided cords. They were high off the floor, over a story above his head. And the distance between, as he rocked back and forth trying to gauge it, was just wider than an average man's performing the splits.

Anders followed his line of sight. “Oh yeah, those. Sensei put 'em up there as a challenge years ago.”

“A challenge?”

“Ring them both at the same time.” He shrugged. “No ones been able to do it. They're too far apart to hit. Can't tell you how many attempts I've taken at it. Boys bigger than me tried, many ended up with sprains. Heh, a twig like you couldn't do it. I doubt you could even jump that high.”

Spike cocked his head at the bells. Their winking light beckoning him. Anders was right, nobody could jump that high. But if the solution was simple, someone would have done it by now.

*

The stars twinkled in the night sky. Restless, Spike once more found himself reclining in the broad windowsill. The ache in his back wasn't helping him any. He should have been resting, but old habits died hard. Against his better judgment, as everyone else was sleeping, he lit a cigarette, needing something to occupy his runaway thoughts.

How to knock over the sensei … there had to be a way. The task teased at his mind like staring at a pool table without a decent shot.

The scent of the smoke grew a bit stronger. He glanced to the side as Anders joined him, the red glow at the cigarette end a twin to his own. Anders leaned against the windowsill, eyes unfocused outside. “You don't sleep much, do you.”

Spike shrugged, and slightly regretted it. Yeah, there was a bruise back there. Bone deep. Laying his head back he resumed stargazing as if they held the answer to his problem. Around the cigarette he muttered, “Used to scavenging at night. Sleeping in the mornings before the marks came in to get drunk.”

Anders eyes shifted to below the bed where the sack lie. “That explains a lot. Pretty slick scoring these.” He held up the cigarette. “But you better be careful not to get caught.”

Get caught? What could they possibly do him that was worse than Joe's punishment? Spike's eyes nearly closed. “Whatever.”

“Seriously. This place isn't a game, Spike. Have you been out there in Tharsis City? This is a place you gotta have resources and connections. I've done a few runs with the ranks, seen how nasty things can get. If they decide to turn you out, it's over, kid. You're finished.”

The twist of smoke hazed the air as Spike mused. He shifted his gaze to Anders. “Tomorrow, do you think I'll have another go at knocking Sensei off his feet?”

The cigarette in Anders's mouth tipped down as his jaw slackened. “Uh, usually. That's how his lessons work. You don't get to the next one before you nail the current one.”

Spike turned back to the stars. “Good.”

The scuff of bare feet on the floor caught both of their attention. From the hall, framed by the bathroom light before it shut off, they spied Vicious. He strode back toward his bunk offering a threatening stare toward the window before he climbed back in bed, cold shouldering them both.

Undeterred by the unveiled threat, Spike snubbed out his spent cigarette. This would be a strange place to navigate, no doubt.


	9. Session 9

**Session 9**

The lure was irresistible. Spike stood at the line glaring through half-lidded eyes at Sensei. The ache between his shoulder blades from the day before pulled mercilessly. But he sank down into the challenge, each breath renewing the agony into a fresh blade.

Sensei stood calmly. “You have the option not to try.”

“Tsh!” Spike's hands pumped into fists. There was no way that was gonna happen.

“If you wish to court another lesson, proceed when ready.”

The plan he'd devised so meticulously overnight ran through his head one more time. It was a gamble. But hey, that was just his nature. This felt like a more physical version of trying a trick shot on the pool table for the first time. If he had the angle right, this could work. If he had it wrong, Sensei would leave another mark on his flesh as payment for his folly.

So be it.

Taking a deep breath, Spike charged and sprang, coming down over Sensei in a high kick. The expression read to him as though Sensei thought, _This again? _He reached out and closed his fingers around Spike's ankle.

Commitment.

Exactly what Spike had hoped he would do. Piking in, Spike clamped both hands around Sensei's wrist as he continued on the posture for the throw. Sensei released his ankle, but of course that did nothing for the grip Spike stubbornly held! The shock registered in Sensei's wide as Spike's legs flew up and outward, now he was trapped in an uncompensated ballast that carried him well over his center of balance. There was no way, for even the sensei, to shift the mass in time.

Boy and teacher went over as Spike kept a death-grip on the wrist. Spike landed hard on his back, slammed down by the overhead whiplash. His breath forced from his lungs in a single expulsion.

But still he hung on, trembling for all he was worth, rasping in a harsh breath against the welling pain.

Sensei lay there, staring at the ceiling. “You realize … with how you landed that leaves you at a disadvantage. In a real fight you would be dead.”

“This isn't a … real fight.” Spike winced as he tried to shift. The fire in his back intensified. He gritted his teeth. “That wasn't in the challenge, the landing. Only getting you down … which I did.”

As Spike let go, Sensei shifted and sat up, rubbing his chin. “You are correct. And considering the knot I put in your back yesterday you should have been in too much pain to perform such a move. And yet … you did.”

Spike panted a few breaths, opening one eye he fixed Sensei with a dead stare. “Pain? Walking three miles through twisted dog infested alleys on a gashed open leg is **real** pain. This … this is nothing.” He hated that the tightness in jaw betrayed the bluff. He really couldn't get up.

Carefully Sensei picked him up. Each motion lit a fresh fire between his shoulder blades. “Let's just undo this, since the lesson is now complete.” In a strange grip, Sensei pressed deep into the middle of the mass. A crackle and a pop later and Spike could breathe again. The pain rapidly abating.

_Of all the sadistic things to do! _

Sensei released him. “Stretch a bit, it will relieve the rest of it.”

Shifting his shoulders, Spike found his full range of motion had been restored. Now only a slight ache remained in the center.

“That was a remarkable tactic you devised. One I have not seen before. Tell me, did you come up with that yourself?”

Spike nodded, still moving the once seized joints. Now **that** was a trick he wanted to learn. How to do that and undo it.

“It nearly worked. Though, as it is, the landing leaves you in a bad position.” He held up a hand. “However, if you were to time the pike release earlier you would have the same effect but afford yourself time to land on your feet. Either that, or twist out of the pike, that would bring you down into an attack stance.”

Visualizing it, Spike nodded. The flow could work.

“Let's try this again, only with a target closer to your height. Gable, step out here.”

Gable balked. “Sensei … but … what about the lesson order. He's skip—”

Sensei held up a hand. “Get out here. You have the timing of the ankle grab needed. That's what I want you to do. As Spike comes down, grab his ankle and move into an overhead throw.”

Glancing at Spike, Gable stepped to the line, a grumble left his throat. A glint of something in his eyes, hard to read. Resentment? Disgust? Fear?

Sensei placed a hand on Spike's shoulder. “How is your back?”

“It's fine now. Hardly hurts.” That wasn't a lie or an exaggeration. To his own unexpressed shock he barely felt what moments ago was a crippling pain.

“Good. Ok, I want you to do the same approach with Gable. This time when you come out of the pike, twist at an angle, away from his core. Feet to the mat when you land.”

Gable glared at him, hands at the ready for a high ankle grab. Sinking down, Spike took a few deep breaths, running the adjusted scenario in his head, trying to imagine how each motion would feel. Just as he had done leaning back in that windowsill the other night.

Once he had it, with a hop step he launched himself at Gable. Fingers clamped down on his ankle clearly committed to the throw. In fact it felt to Spike like Gable intended to compensate for the weight shift. Spike piked into it, clamping on Gable's wrist. This time, when his ankle was free, Spike twisted the layout taking Gable along for the ride with him. It wasn't perfect. It wasn't quite fast enough in the turn, but he landed on a foot and a knee this time instead of his back. Gable, on the other hand, writhed beneath the pin.

Spike released the grip, but even as Sensei spoke he caught the advantage. “Better. Even from here there is a number of options. For Gable's sake we won't do it again.” The boy glared over his shoulder as he climbed to his feet, scorn in his eyes. “During this afternoon's meditation I want you to reflect on this technique. Focus on balance and its many applications. We'll see what you come up with tomorrow.”

With a bow, Spike took his leave toward the edge of the mat. Sensei caught him before he knelt down. “Spike, I truly didn't expect you to have solved this that quickly. Nor in such an unusual way.”

He lifted a shoulder and let it drop. “It's all about topspin.”

Sensei wasn't the only one awash in confusion.

Still standing, Spike gestured like he was holding a pool cue. “A ball spins and transfers the spin in different ways depending on how you hit it. Middle, high, low; they all behave differently. So I figured all this would take was an angle you weren't expecting.”

“I am beginning to understand what Mao saw in you.”

Kneeling on the mat, Spike became steadily aware of the glances his direction. He marked them. Gable's ire made sense, considering he'd just been pinned. Anders flashed a half hidden grin. Kieran shifted back on his knees, putting a bit more distance between. The youngest, Lance, did the opposite, leaning forward, closer to Spike, awe in his eyes. These were the most pronounced out of the pack of boys, there were more. The last to catch Spike's attention was the venomous glare from Vicious, his white knuckled fists pressed into the mat. Those eyes locked onto him and remained in their disquieting gaze.

Sensei's prior words echoed through his mind, _A fool provides his enemy a route of control. Be calm and still, suppress the fear where your enemy's reach does not extend._

He took a deep breath. Closed his eyes for a moment to refocus on the new mantra. Then, slow and sure, he reopened, resuming the unspoken staring contest. It seemed odd, after all, it's not like Spike had flipped Vicious. Just one of his buddies. So what was this kid's deal?

It reminded Spike of the gangs running around Deseado. A certain sense of loyalty. Where what affected one, affected the whole. And yet, that wasn't the right vibe, not quite.

The staring continued unabated until Sensei called Vicious to the line. He nearly gestured for Anders, but shook his head briefly before turning to Kade, this boy Spike would guess was closer to his own age older by maybe a year. But the quiet boy stepped to the line unshaken.

Sensei fixed Vicious with narrowed eyes. “Strike drill, as we did yesterday. But you have gotten used to my patterns. You will deliver what I call out. You and Kade will trade offense and defense. Vicious, this is not a full spar match. Your goal is not to break Kade. Just work on precision.”

Spike noted a slow grin as Vicious sank down into a start posture. That wasn't the surprise. The surprise came from Sensei's eyes narrowing further. “I mean it.” The grin flickered, and soured. “You are to hold back.”

Call by call, Sensei barked out strike patterns. Vicious and Kade snapped into them in a back and forth trade. First Vicious on the offense, then Kade. It made sense, each had the chance to throw and receive. It was no illusion. Neither one held back. Kade flinched at the impact of a strike as forearm met forearm. His teeth gritted and he poured more into the return strike offered to Vicious.

In the back and forth Spike studied the nuances as surely as he would a mark for poker tells. Something was missing, something rather one-sided. Spike leaned a little closer, trying to make sense of it. Both boys were skilled, Vicious clearly the more aggressive of the two as he drove his fists harder into Kade. Before long, both had blossoms of blood on their knuckles. Proof this beat drove deeper than a drill. Sweat diluted blood drops on the floor.

Kade winced when his fist drove into Vicious's forearm. On the return strike … Vicious didn't. He drove through it.

Damn! That had to hurt. And adrenaline could mask a good deal, but still. This drill wasn't enough to create that kind of a rush. Not normally. No, there was something else going on. Pride? Ever since they first crossed paths, Spike knew that Vicious had a chip on his shoulder. Their first sparing match proved that. And now it seemed that every motion, every strike, was to show he was still on top.

Tsh, who cared. Well, apparently he did. All this was petty nonsense. Spike knelt by the side of the mat. He had a place here in this dojo, under master Yenrai.

His eyes roved up to the bells hanging down on the cord. This place of endless challenges. Something told him that regardless of progression, Sensei would continue to invent new things.

Ander's whisper broke through his thoughts, “What are you smiling about?”

“Huh?” Only then did he realize he had been.

*

Spike lay back on his bunk, the bag of light-fingered goods beside him. He chewed on a caramel, savoring the sweet flavor. Candy had been such a rare score in the slums. In the intermittent bustle in the dorm, he let his mind sort through the problem of the bell challenge. No matter how he turned it the solution was out of reach. He didn't even have to try it to know that the current strategies, the most obvious ones, would lead to flailing. When no one was looking, he'd stretched out on the floor and measured. There was no chance his arms or legs spread far enough, even in a splits, to hit both at the same time. That ignored the issue of jumping that high to begin with.

He heaved a sigh.

A hand pressed on the edge of the mattress, it creaked.

Spike glanced to the side to find Lance ducking down. This boy looked to be about eight years old. His nose twitched, eyes to the small pile of wax-wrapped caramels beside him. Longing in those eyes. True, they'd all eaten dinner. While the food was good, there was nothing to appease a sweet tooth. All the more reason when Spike discovered the forgotten jar he had taken a good handful.

The moment Lance noted he'd been spotted, he looked away.

Idly, Spike plucked one from the pile. “Here, s'not like I don't got plenty. More where these came from.”

In the rapid tear of the wrapped, everyone knew. All eyes turned toward Lance as he popped the candy in his mouth and moaned with pleasure.

Spike rolled his eyes, hands cradling his head.

Soon he was swarmed by begging hands. So much for the tough boys. Even Gable stood there, an eagerness in his open hands. Wordlessly, Spike dropped one to each boy. The only one who didn't come across the room was Vicious. Though he did glare from across the room.

After the sunset and the room grew quiet, Spike lay in meditation, pondering both the throw and the bells. A shaft of light briefly cut across the floor before a door closed it mostly off.

Sitting up, Spike glimpsed the bathroom light on. Vicious's bed lie empty. Silent as possible, he creapt across the floor. No one else woke. Through the narrow crack in the doorway, Spike peered. Vicious yanked his sleep shirt over his head. Twisting around, he stared at the mirror. At first Spike wondered if the boy was truly that damn vain as he examined himself. But then … Vicious stiffened and whispered a curse.

In the mirror's reflection a deep black bruise on the back of his upper arm where Kade had directed many a strike.

Spike narrowed his eyes. _Now that was odd._


End file.
